Death's Ballet
by Ilysia11
Summary: He always got screwed over. Dropped in unfamiliar situations without reason. Fate's plaything, Fate's punching bag. Suddenly dumped into a world of wizards without explanation, it was a wonder he only had a little bit of an existential mindset. And this was from a guy who knew real-live deities existed and what the afterlife was like. Nico just wanted to go home.
1. The Mystery Begins

"_Oh gods, Nico . . . you didn't . . ." Percy stared at him, open-mouthed with horror._

"_You . . . you really went to him, didn't you? Even after . . . after . . ." He sucked in a breath and didn't finish._

_Nico stood still; he felt like he was in a straitjacket. How could he have found out? He didn't—he wasn't going to—! Damn it! He clenched his fists._

_"Are you calling me a traitor, Percy?" he snarled._

_Percy stared at him, eyes hardening._

_"I guess so. Why did you do it, Nico? What could Kronos have that you—_we—_don't?"_

_"Nothing!" he sneered. "I didn't go to him!"_

_Percy narrowed his eyes. "I saw you coming out of his camp, unharmed. Don't give me that shit. Stop lying and come clean, Nico! It's not too late to get out while you can."_

_"No it's not—because I was never in there in the fucking first place!"_

_Even as he said that, even as Percy simply stared at him with that knowing look in his eyes, Nico didn't know it he truly believed that . . ._

_He swallowed. "Please, just—just let me in. I want to help; this world can't go to Kronos!" Percy studied him with harsh judgment in his eyes. Nico fidgeted._

_What was taking so long? Didn't they need all the support they could get?_

_And yet Percy continued to hesitate. Nico felt as if he had been stabbed._

_". . . Come in," he finally muttered, moving out of the doorway._

_Nico slowly entered the headquarters, muscles tense and alert, like a stranger in an unfamiliar world. Percy closed the door behind and took the lead. But even as he led Nico in, Nico felt something shatter between them, leaving behind an invisible wound. Nico wondered if it was one that would ever heal completely._

* * *

"Damn."

There was an array of apartment buildings before him, monotonous and dark in the pitch-black shadows of night. Windows seemed lumped together, metal and glass tangled to create old-fashioned, lopsided masterpieces. The doors looked plastic and dusty even though he couldn't see very well. He scowled.

The buildings looked like something out of a horror movie in which the stupid chick walks into and subsequently screams her ass off. _Ah memories . . . _Percy and Annabeth had made him watch lots, trying to scare him.

(Suffice to say . . . it didn't work.)

The night air swept around him, embracing his lithe body; he shivered, wishing he had a jacket. Goose bumps covered his bare arms. But he supposed he only had himself to thank for that; he hated long-sleeve shirts. _My aviator jacket would have been a boon though . . ._

The lights inside each building were shut off, with only the occasional lamppost lighting up the street. If there were no lights, Nico was sure the boogeyman would have enjoyed living here.

Nico snorted, and taking advantage of the lights (no matter how limited) he squinted, just making out the tiny numbers engraved in the shadowed brick.

The numbers directly in front of him were ten, eleven, and oddly enough thirteen. Twelve was blotched out. Nico's brows furrowed.

Odd . . .

He sighed, looking back up at the black backdrop of a night sky.

Whatever he was doing before, he knew it wasn't touring old apartment buildings. Especially at night.

(Why the Hades would anyone do that? It wasn't even Halloween yet.)

One minute he was just randomly walking . . . somewhere . . . and the next he was standing here with a faint feeling of nausea.

As if on cue, his stomach swirled uneasily. He winced. He was glad he didn't eat anything previously; he had nothing to throw up.

(Though maybe he wished he did; at least it meant he would have an illusion of three meals a day.)

Wherever he was, it wasn't New York. Hell, it wasn't even Los Angeles. Was he even in New York or Los Angeles previously?

So then where the Hades was he?

He glared at the building. He didn't like this. Something bigger was going on; something that would bite him in the ass later. He scowled. And all he'd wanted to do was relax now that the Second Titan War was over.

Nico looked back at the building for what seemed the tenth time. He was beginning to get restless. He was cold, hungry, and irritated. He swallowed. He needed to get out of here. But . . . where would he go?

He didn't know where he was or why he was here. He clenched his fists. He didn't like being messed around with. Whoever was doing this to him would experience a bit of _pain_ when he got back . . .

He breathed in, calmly.

He needed to make a decision, calmly.

(Calm down . . .)

The apartment buildings didn't look very inviting. But they weren't exactly uninviting. So one night should be fine . . . then he'd disappear.

He took a step forward and—

_(Agony.)_

Pain rippled through his body. He froze, gasping for breath, clutching his chest.

_Wha—what is this?_

Ghostly wails—piercing in intensity, heartbreaking in sound—invaded the silence.

They were angry. They were lonely. They were . . .

(Just like him.)

The screams tore through his eardrums, even as he tried to block it out.

And a scent . . . there was a peculiar scent that he had only smelled in the Underworld.

It was the scent of death . . . of a soul.

This soul . . . he cringed. It was shrouded in torment. Nico felt jagged edges throwing their claws at him, but failing.

The soul hissed at him. He gritted his teeth and swatted it away. Disgust flared up in him as he touched it.

Instantly he knew what it was.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

He had to destroy it. Nothing this terrible deserved to live.

It was _impossibility_. What idiot had done this? Mass murder for something as stupid as immortality. What . . . what _bastard_ had made this—this—

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

Nico reluctantly reached toward the soul in his mind's eye, trying to sense what he was up against.

His eyes snapped wide-open. This wasn't the only piece split from the soul. There was another in that very building. Both of them were so close together it was laughable.

Fists clenched, Nico took a step forward. As if obeying some invisible compass, he swiveled from east to west then crossed the sidewalk and stopped at a brick wall.

The brick building loomed high above him, but something felt off about it. It felt obscured—mired in secrets. A feeling wafted off of it into the air around Nico. That was when he realized.

Magic.

It was definitely magic, only a lot more muddled than that of Hecate's children. It was less pure; entangled.

Hades had told his son of wizards and witches once, but Nico hadn't really believed it, nor felt the need to look into it. Could . . . could his father have been telling him a true story?

Did Hecate really bless a group of mortals?

_And I thought he was shitting me . . . Wait! He might have . . . making me think this._

He scowled. _Still though . . . _If he _was_ dealing with an idiotic mortal—_wizard_—then he needed to contain the damage. Who knows how many more he or she might have told, how many more mortals trying to destroy nature's already precarious balance. Kronos had very nearly obliterated it and look where that had almost sent the world! Chaos and misfortune, blood and death, loss, _grief—_

"_Nico! Nico . . ."_

He shook himself out of his memories. He couldn't—if he thought about . . . about _her _then . . .

_No. It's over. She's . . . in a better place._

Swallowing painfully, he looked back at the wall. Furrowing his brow, he looked deeper and caught the barest traces of—of _something._

_Something_ was behind here, hidden by magic.

But . . . what would it be? He squinted, reaching out further, trying to discern the clouded image, that secret feeling. He paused. Maybe it was a secret hideout? Or a secret compartment? Such an area was great for keeping things hidden but it was so _obvious! _Unless . . . no one else in this . . . _world _(he was reluctant to admit it, still unsure whether or not he was being pranked) could sense it. Maybe—his eyes widened.

_Ah. Twelve._

Twelve was missing from the apartment buildings. So it was the twelfth building that was hidden.

He took a step back and immersed himself in the shadows. He shivered in pleasure as a chill caressed his body; the embrace of darkness. Within it was a chill so cold it was warm, an atmosphere so shrouded in loneliness that it was anything but. A paradox of feelings but an instrument of comfort.

He hurtled through a dark tunnel at electrifying speeds, like an exhilarating roller coaster ride, darkness wrapping around him like a blanket, shielding him from harm.

All too soon it came to a stop. The tunnel opened in a circular hole, revealing a minimally lighted room. He landed on the floor, silent and graceful, like a cat.

(Or maybe like a ninja . . . _if I want to flatter myself.)_

He quickly looked around and confirmed that it was indeed a building that was hidden. A door was behind him leading to other rooms. A huge, old, musty drawer sat to the right of Nico and a couple of dusty folding chairs were splayed lazily on the ground to his left.

To the naked eye, the building would look abandoned, but Nico knew better. There were various signs that people were in here. Some drawers were left open and the trail of dust on most of the floor was bleeped out in footprint-shaped holes.

He reached out for the soul (if one could call it that)—

_Screams!_—full, blown-out _screams_!

He breathed roughly, clutching his head and trying to appease the pain striking at his head like a hammer.

It was here; one of _them_ was here.

The hammer turned into a wrecking ball and it took all his strength to make that step forward, to close that abyss within which he fell, that nerve-wrecking shriek of anger and misery—

_Stop,_ said he, the harbinger of death and balance, he who had won an impossible war, he who forced close that painful abyss . . .

He breathed a sigh of relief, body slightly trembling. He reached up to his ears, and upon striking a wet, sticky liquid, recoiled. He stared at the sanguine liquid, dazed but not surprised.

His ears _throbbed_ and he listened to the rhythmic beat, so soothing, almost, a pleasurable throbbing, and an aftershock of endless agony—

He closed his eyes . . .

_Focus._

He stood back up and dusted himself.

Nico walked toward the old drawer, where the split soul resided. His hand shot out and jerked the middle drawer out. He frowned. It didn't budge.

He tried again. Again. _Open. Open!_

"—_told me that the definition of insanity was doing something over and over again but expecting different results."_

Bubbling with frustration, he almost burned the entire chest, but quickly caught himself.

It was then that he realized he could just use his shadows to transport it out. He facepalmed and stood still for a single second. The throbbing was mere background music. Frowning, he wiped the blood from his ears with his shirt before it could dry, knowing that it would not reveal itself on the black surface.

Fearing infection, he pulled a piece of squished ambrosia from the back of his jeans and consumed it whole. Moments later, his throbbing receded and he prayed to the gods that it would heal everything.

One quick thought and he had the object filled with the split soul in his hand.

It was a heavy gold locket featuring a serpentine _S_ inlaid in glittering green gems on its front.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

There was a tangible force field around it, trying to lure him back into that abyss . . . He ignored it. His shadows enveloped him like a cloak, protecting him from the locket's malicious influence.

He narrowed his eyes in disgust and summoned his sword. A three-foot long sword of Stygian Iron appeared overflowing with shadows in Nico's outstretched hand.

His fingers gripped the sword and the shadows left, receding back to the edges of the walls.

It would have been better perhaps if it was opened but this was the best Nico could do on short notice. He carefully placed the thing on the ground with the _S_ facing him. Gripping his sword with both hands, he plunged downward.

A bloodcurdling scream broke out as soon as the sword pierced the locket. Nico winced, his eardrums pounding, but pressed onward. Shadows flooded his ears, muting the scream, saving him from injury . . .

His closed his eyes, gathering his power and ignoring the soul's tortuous cries. He let up as he felt the soul fade into nothingness.

_It was gone_.

Silence draped over the room and Nico opened his eyes, feeling drained.

He let go of his sword, letting it land on the ground with a loud metal clang. He toppled down after it, looking at his results. The locket was in shambles—completely ruined. Hellfire had charred it to rubble, black and ashy. Filthy.

He winced. His head pounded. His limbs were sluggish. The Hellfire had drained him . . . If only he had eaten more and conserved his energy . . . then he would be fine. He languidly put away his sword, sending it back to the shadows.

His vision felt hazy and his ears were pounding so loudly he couldn't concentrate. He panted like a dog. His eyelids were so heavy . . . He was lucky he even heard the footsteps resounding behind him.

He swiveled around slowly and blinked a few times before his vision came into focus. A group of people stared at him, stunned. Their faces were obscured by the darkness and Nico's weakening vision didn't help. He blinked twice more, trying to keep from falling unconscious. _Damn . . . Not today . . . Why now!_

One of them shuffled forth and demanded, "Who are you and how did you get in here?"

The figure held something that vaguely resembled a stick towards Nico. Other than that, Nico just managed to register that it was a gruff, male voice thick with suspicion, when the lull of blackness called to him. He struggled to stay awake but his eyelids . . . so heavy . . . and his limbs wouldn't move . . .

(He automatically knew he wouldn't get to take care of the other torn soul today.)

* * *

"I say we use veritaserum on the boy. We—"

"He's _just_a boy! Look at how thin he is. He _shouldn't_ be forced into an interrogation—"

"Molly, please. I am not saying we should act upon either course of action. But Alastor, veritaserum may be unnecessary."

Alastor scoffed. "Constant vigilance, Albus! How else are we going to get the guaranteed truth out of the boy—"

"Maybe we could just ask him. He's too young to be a Death Eater—"

"He could be using Polyjuice Potion?—"

"No, you dolt! We've been here longer than an hour—"

Albus Dumbledore had a splitting headache.

An emergency meeting had been called ever since the intruder had been found unconscious. He had been moved to the kitchen table where charms had been placed upon him to notify Albus when he awoke.

They had been residing on chairs in the drawing room—the very scene of the crime—for at least an hour, arguing over the course of action. Albus had seen the unconscious boy lying on the table in the kitchen. The boy was pale beyond belief yet paradoxically retaining an olive skin tone.

He had dark hair, in a similar style to Harry's hair, and seemed to be around fifteen with a tall, lean build. Albus had yet to discover how he had even gotten into Twelve Grimmauld Place. He could not have apparated; he should not have even seen the old apartment.

The apartment was protected by the Fidelis Charm. Only Albus could have told the boy how to get in there which he had no recollection of doing. The boy was as much a stranger to him as he probably was to the boy.

But even more astonishing was that the drawer that was reportedly impenetrable had been cracked open by the intruder. The drawer showed no signs of stress which led Albus to believe it had been opened magically, but with no spell he knew. And the drawer had not been opened without purpose.

Next to the boy, utterly ruined and destroyed, was a locket. Albus held it in his hands now, rubbing the charred surface. As he had inspected it, he had realized it for what it was. It was Slytherin's locket. Remnants of the emeralds still stained the surface, somehow retaining the serpentine outline.

He had been quite perturbed that the boy would destroy a priceless heirloom such as this. Knowingly or unknowingly he did not know. But he wanted to find out. _Why_ the locket was in there in the first place and _how_ did the boy knew of its existence?

A twinkle lit up in his eye; this was an interesting mystery, one he would surely have fun solving.

"Albus! Are you hearing this? We need to decide before an all-out _war_ breaks out!" Minerva McGonagall whispered fiercely.

"Yes, Minerva, I'm quite aware," he responded, dipping his head to her.

She stared incredulously at him.

"Then why don't you do something, Albus?" Albus smiled gently at her.

"We need to choose carefully," was his vague response.

Minerva kept staring at him, disbelieving. Albus chuckled and decided to humor his Deputy and stop the debate.

"Veritaserum is always one hundred percent effective!" Alastor Moody barked.

"And illegal . . .," someone muttered.

"Everyone, calm down. We need to decide," Albus paused, tilting his head to the side, "Our guest has awakened."

A brief, peaceful silence stayed any voices and then, "Albus, what do you suppose we should do?"

Albus simply smiled and nodded respectfully at the man.

"I think we should go meet our young guest. We need to gain his trust so he will willingly tell us how he breached our defenses."

Nods of approval wafted through the crowd. Alastor grunted but didn't offer any resistance.

"Alright then, what are we waiting for? Let's go meet the boy."

Ten minutes later, the majority of the Order had left for the warm comfort of their beds or the harsh reality of work. Those few that stayed were the Weasleys', Sirius, Remus, Alastor Moody, and surprisingly, Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

They had all gathered in the kitchen, taking cautious steps toward the fully-awake boy studying each and every one of them from on top of the table with the calculating shrewdness of a Slytherin. But he stood up to them with the courageousness of a Gryffindor.

_Interesting_, Albus thought.

He was staring at the boy, silently evaluating him when his blue eyes met the boy's solid black ones. Albus sobered as he realized the depth of those eyes. They had seen war, pain and death. Those eyes were too old for their body. It saddened Albus to see that the young had to endure this kind of pain so early in life.

He had already seen it in Harry as well as some other kids, remnants of Voldemort's reign.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, calmly and quietly.

Albus raised his eyebrows. The boy had an American accent. That was interesting. Was he from America or was it acting? The Order members voiced nothing; their faces foretold of their surprise.

"I am Albus Dumbledore. Might I ask your name?"

He expected to see the spark of recognition ignite in the boy's face. But nothing happened. The boy paused, looking around the room with an unreadable expression.

"The rest of you?" he prompted.

Cautiously, Albus let everyone else introduce themselves. The boy stared at each and every one with cold indifference. He did not seem to recognize any of the names.

Perhaps he had amnesia?

Even an American wizard had heard of the Headmaster of Hogwarts as well as the famous Auror Mad-eye Moody.

The boy's gaze hardened. "While helpful, that was not my question. _Who _are you to _me_?"

Albus stood, surprised. What other adolescent would he have heard such a philosophical but probing question from? That was a question from the battle-hardened, the paranoid . . .

_Who are _you_, young man?_

The Order remained silent. They did not know how to respond to that either. Such information in times like these was sensitive . . .

"To you?" Albus murmured, frowning. "To you we are unwilling hosts, young man. This place is hidden for a reason and we would very much like to know how you found it."

The boy frowned at them. Albus made quick eye contact with Snape, briefly lowering his Occlumency shields.

_Do you recognize him?_

Snape shook his head imperceptibly. Albus glanced back at the boy, eyes softened.

_Most likely not acquainted with the enemy then and certainly no Death Eater._

"It seems," the boy muttered, frowning, "that I am just as much a mystery to you as you are to me."

Albus' eyes' twinkled. "Indeed. Might I ask your name now that you know ours? It helps to solve mysteries."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Nico. Nico di Angelo."

Albus discreetly looked at the other occupants in the room, silently questioning. Did they recognize the name? The boy obviously did not have amnesia; he was too sure for that. So perhaps Nico di Angelo was not a wizard? But no, a muggle could not bypass the Fidelis Charm.

A muggle could not open a drawer that wizards could not. A muggle could not destroy a priceless heirloom so expertly. It was impossible. Another moment of silence passed before Nico spoke again.

"Where am I?"

A gasp broke out from all the other wizards in witches in the room. Albus took this in calmly if not a little shocked. So the boy had not intentionally bypassed the Charm; curious. _Mystery indeed, young man, one which even you do not understand the full extent._

"I am afraid I cannot tell you that, young man."

The boy looked annoyed.

"Country? Continent? You can't give me that, old man? Unless," he added coldly, "you are too senile to remember."

Albus smiled as the rest of the Order members grumbled about the boy's disrespect.

"You are in London, England, Mr. di Angelo. Where are you from?"

Nico studied him suspiciously.

"America."

Albus had thought as much. Accents can be very revealing.

"Would you mind telling us what you are doing here then, Nico? This is a very secure location and not many people could find it."

Nico snorted derisively and replied, "It's obviously not very secure if I can get in without even knowing it."

Albus frowned at the answer. _He completely avoided the question._

_It seems a different approach is in order_. He reached into his robes and pulled out the damaged locket.

The Order members looked at it with interest.

Albus looked expectantly at the boy. A flash of recognition crossed his face until he schooled his expression once again.

_He has been interrogated before._

"Then why did you destroy this locket? We found it next to you after you fell unconscious."

Nico glowered at him but said nothing, causing the Order members to mutter amongst themselves.

"He's guilty of something, Albus."

Albus ignored Alastor's comment, still pinpointing his gaze on the boy who looked very annoyed with himself.

"Mr. di Angelo?" he prompted.

Nico snapped out of his thoughts and glared at Albus. The Order members and their leader stepped back, wary at the ferocity of the gaze.

"It's none of your business, Mr. Dumbledore. Now if you will allow me to leave—"

"Nonsense!" Alastor snapped, hobbling forward.

"Alastor!" Albus warned, trying to get the man to stop.

Alastor took no heed of the comment, continuing forward to the boy at a considerable speed. He reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny vial full of clear liquid—Albus's eyes widened. He quickly reached for his wand, warning Alastor against his actions.

The members in the back realized what the Auror was about to do and ran forward with their wands in hands. But they did not want to stun their ally. Nico just watched with a puzzled expression, his instincts screaming at him to back away.

Looking back, he'd wished he'd listened.

With the swiftness of a cobra, Alastor's hand lunged forward and grabbed hold of Nico's mouth, holding it open. Nico, surprised, froze for a second until he saw the bottle of liquid heading for his exposed mouth.

Nico struggled to get out of the man's grip but was too weak from his previous excursion. The Order members froze in horror as the bottle was unwillingly administered to Nico. Silence—terrible, morbid silence—reigned as the contents of the bottle forced their way into Nico's mouth.

Nico tried to spit it out but Alastor growled, "Swallow!"

He proceeded to clamp the boy's mouth shut and hold his head up towards the ceiling.

Eventually they heard the dramatic gulp of the swallow. Pleased, Alastor let go of the boy. But before he could ask any questions, Albus reprimanded the paranoid wizard.

"Alastor! What were you thinking? You know how dangerous the truth serum can be—"

"We need answers, Albus! These are suspicious times. You know that as well as I do."

"_Still_, Mad-eye. You didn't have to pour anything down the poor boy's throat! You have _no_ sense of morality."

"Molly, Alastor; that is enough!" Albus roared.

Silence descended upon the group, like a vacuum had sucked every word, every noise.

It was only broken by the coughing of one truth-serum-administered boy.

"What did you do to me?" rasped Nico, coughing and hacking.

No one spoke, too afraid that they would be on the receiving end of Albus's rage. But then Alastor snapped out of his trance.

"Who are you?" he barked, looming over Nico menacingly.

"Alastor! You may not—"

"Albus, it's already been administered. We might as well press it to our advantage," was the voice of reason through one Severus Snape.

Albus stared at him for a few lingering seconds before nodding once, though very reluctantly. He did not like that the child before them may be subjected to invasion of privacy. As Albus looked at Nico, the boy was red and clammy from trying to keep his mouth shut.

Albus was inwardly impressed that he managed to hold out this long.

"It is alright, Mr. di Angelo. We will not make you answer anything you do not want to. But would you please cooperate?"

It was the only thing that Albus could do now. Alastor might have effectively ruined their one chance to gain the boy's trust. Nico glared threateningly at them, but nodded jerkily. He was still trying to resist Alastor's question.

With a sigh, Albus repeated, "What is your name?"

"Nico di Angelo," was the instantaneous reply.

Albus observed Nico's expression as he began to realize the true power of the truth serum. Fear pooled in his dark eyes. Albus felt wrong by doing this—invading Nico's privacy. But what was done was done.

"Where are you from?"

They had already procured this information, but it would be reassuring to have it revealed under the truth serum.

"The United States of America."

Albus was pleased. Nico had been telling the truth so far.

"How did you find this place?"

Nico visibly bristled, glowering at the people in the room.

"I was somehow transported right outside of this place."

Nico looked sour at the revelation. The Order members looked on with interest. Albus was intrigued. But Alastor was a little less accepting.

"Are you a wizard?" he growled, throwing the Statute of Secrecy out the window.

"Alastor!"

"Moody!"

"Of course he's a wizard, you dunderhead! How else would he have gotten in—"

"No."

A stunned silence fell on the group. They looked at the strange boy with utter shock and astonishment. If he wasn't a wizard, then how did he get in?

Even Albus was at a loss for words. Nico bubbled with rage inside, cursing the truth serum as well as the paranoid idiot that gave it to him.

If he didn't have this _truth potion_ making him tell the real honest truth then he could have made something up. An elaborate hoax while trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Then how the hell did you get in?" Sirius asked, breaking everyone out of their trance.

Nico stayed silent for a while. His scowled in pain as he attempted to fight off the veritaserum. A few minutes passed as Nico became more and more sickly. His cheeks were red with strain and his limbs fidgeted in random spasms.

At last, he collapsed back onto the oval table, unconscious once more.


	2. The Escape and the Attack

He didn't know what woke him. Maybe it was the splash of cold air against his skin. Or maybe it was his hunger pains, minimal though they were when contrasted against the situation he'd been unceremoniously dumped into.

Raven-colored orbs opened and took in his surroundings.

He was no longer in what he assumed to be the kitchen. He was in a bedroom, lying on a soft, rectangular mattress, held inches above the ground by four metal pegs.

Two other identical beds—empty and made up—were across from him. The dark, windowless walls surrounded him on all fours with only a small rectangular door for the entrance as well as the exit. He felt trapped. Caged.

(An animal; not worth enough to be given attention.)

He shot up, grimacing at the pains in his stomach. He was hungry. _Damn_, he was hungry. But he'd have to grin and bear it like he always did. Hunger was not an unusual companion.

He took a step forward and winced at the wood's loud creaking noise. The wood was old and decrepit, just like everything else in the room. He frowned, examining the dark surface. Testing the waters, he took a step forward, then another.

Pleased that the wood no longer creaked, he walked to the door at a regular pace. He needed to get rid of the piece of ripped soul and be on his way. He didn't want anything to do with these insane wizards.

He just wanted to get home.

A thought striking him, he paused, leaving his foot hovering over the floor. He reached out with his awareness, looking for the ripped soul. He needed to know where his target was after all. Alarmed when he felt nothing, he extended his reach.

His heart beat raced as he thought that he might have been wrong the first time. But that wouldn't have happened right? A feeling was a feeling.

His qualms went down slightly as he felt a sliver of agony wash over his body. But it was very weak. Maybe the amount of ripped soul wasn't large enough to make an impact?

But no, one size fit all.

No matter how much of ripped soul was in an object, the same amount of pain was radiated every time. So why was this so much weaker? Were his powers not working right? Troubled, he reached for the door and carelessly yanked it open.

He needed to find that piece fast. He been practicing with his powers and getting stronger ever since after the War. His powers rivaled Percy's now, even with his cousin's Achilles' Curse. So they couldn't just stop _working_.

_(It was all he had.)_

Ignoring the loud creak that sounded from the old wooden door, he hurriedly stepped out of the room.

But his advance was met with trouble. Cold fury erupted in Nico when he realized who the perpetrator standing outside his door was. It was that man that poured that damn truth potion down Nico's throat without his consent.

He looked like a poorly put together jigsaw puzzle, assembled as if the assembler had not cared about correctness and left the pieces joined together in frustration. Mismatched eyes glowered at him, one dark (the natural one) and the other a fake electric-blue eye. Nico was undaunted. He could bring this man to his knees.

"What are you doing, boy?" the man growled, his fingers enclosing around a wooden staff as tall as he. He took a threatening step forward, his wooden peg leg gently tapping the floor. Nico's eyes were attracted to the missing chunk of his nose and the grey, grizzled mop of hair. _Great. Another Hephaestus._

"Don't ignore me," he sneered mockingly, a twisted, ugly expression, "I could always shove another potion down your throat."

Fury broke across his face. Nico took a deep breath.

(Calm down.)

He had some other business to attend to and while he may be angry at this wizard, some things came before revenge.

(A lesson he'd learned the hard way.)

He tried to move around the wizard, but the man wouldn't allow it.

"You're not going anywhere. Now go back in there before I blast you."

Nico sneered. "You look like you've been on the receiving end of those blasts more times than you've been the dealer."

A maniacal gleam stirred in the man's eye.

But before he could so much as raise his staff, Nico was already barreling over him in a graceful flip. He landed on his feet with naught a sound and stole a quick look over his shoulder.

The man was stunned temporarily, but he was quickly moving out of it.

It was now or never.

Nico dashed down the deserted hallway, past the old musty doors leading into other rooms. Old antiques cluttered the ground near the edges of the wall and Nico had to focus more than he'd like on jumping over them. As he ran, he searched for that faint feeling of pain.

Once he grasped at it, he started pinpointing it, jumping over an umbrella in the way. But soon he realized it was coming from behind him. He screeched to a halt, his shoe soles digging into the old wooden floor.

Cursing, he turned around and doubled back, once again jumping over the umbrella obstructing the narrow hallway. His stomach rolled and moaned, his head echoing the feelings like a mime. He viciously tried to ignore it. _Not now._

He heard the man hobbling somewhere in front of him and knew he had to act fast. Following the trail, he threw open the door to the right and quickly stepped into the room. The door slammed loudly against the wall, no doubt attracting the man.

Nico cursed his own stupidity, but kept looking for the source. What he found disappointed him greatly. There were three beds in the medium sized bedroom, but only two were filled. They each framed the walls, once again windowless.

The first occupant was snoring loudly on his or her side, shuffling under the covers. The other occupant wore earmuffs and slept snugly on the other side of the room. But neither of them possessed pieces of ripped soul.

There were faint traces of it on them, though—remnants of their contact with the infected person.

He should have known; that was why the feeling was weaker than it was supposed to be.

The feeling was just amplified traces—evidence that the two people in the room spent a huge amount of time with the infected person.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

And what was worse was that he heard the man scrambling not two yards away in the hallway. He had probably a few seconds before the man located him.

His mood extremely sour, he called to the shadows and grimaced as he shadow travelled out of the apartment building. Not even the cold embrace tweaked his mood.

This was only the beginning to a terrible day.

* * *

_"__Where_ is my son?" Hades roared, his face twisting in unbridled rage.

The skeletal servants could do nothing but shiver in terror, having no idea where the young lord could be. Hades stomped about in his throne room, his aura cackling menacingly.

He had been trying to get into contact with Nico for a good half of the day, but every try was to no avail. He tried Iris Messaging the boy, checking graveyards, that demigod camp, everything!

Nothing.

He threw a ball of hellfire at the ghosts huddled in the corner. They scampered from the spot in terror as the hellfire shot sizzled through the palace walls.

With a grunt, Hades snapped his fingers and sent the shadows to fix the wall.

But that did nothing to fix his other problem. If anything happened to the boy, Hades would take care of the offenders himself.

His son—! His only son . . . What if—? No.

_Calm down._

He was better than this; he shouldn't have lost his temper so easily.

But the boy was all he had left of Maria . . . And the boy was worthier than he had first surmised. Hades sighed.

He had to summon _them_ if he wanted to find his son. He looked unnervingly at the two quivering skeletal servants still standing on the opposite side of the room.

"Summon the soul guardians!"

* * *

"The boy is more than he looks, Albus! He has prime physical condition, something that wizards need to start considering."

Albus frowned, but was more intrigued than he let on. But this was grave news.

Somehow, the boy had escaped.

They still didn't know enough about him. All they knew was his name, place of origin, and that he wasn't a wizard. It was most troubling that a muggle got through their elite defense not once but _twice_.

Most troubling indeed. They need to keep an eye on that boy, figure out how security was breached, but that would be impossible if he wasn't here.

"We need to assemble the Guard and send out a search party for the boy. As a muggle, he couldn't have gotten far."

But . . . a feeling of foreboding overtook Albus.

_Is he truly a muggle . . . or something we have never before seen?_

* * *

Nico had landed somewhere in a town. The shadows transported him to a dark alley when he gave no instructions—an alley inundated with rats and mice feasting on trash and old musty bits of food.

Nico made his way out immediately. He had plans on finding out just where he was. The old man had told him London, England but he wasn't so sure to trust what he said or not.

When he emerged from the alley, he saw crowds of people dressed in suits and skirts running along the sidewalk. Some were strolling steadily, others rushing through the throng. He lost count of how many suitcases he saw but he could count the number of buildings.

Some buildings were skyscrapers, though nothing compared to the Empire State Building in New York. The grey-tinted windows reflected the sun's early morning shine on each other, like crystals.

Stores cramped beside the tall buildings were overshadowed by their counterparts.

Nico looked around the crowd once again and, seeing an opening, strolled through. He weaved his way through the crowd, biding his time.

He had no rush to get anywhere, only to get information. Walking next to a tall, black skyscraper, he spotted a newspaper stand. His interest piqued, he wandered over to the miniature cart.

Piles of newspapers were stacked neatly side by side on the table but no one was supervising the stand. Nico stopped in front of it and squinted to read the headlines. But his dyslexia chose to step in at that moment.

The words floated off the page, rearranging themselves in indecipherable gibberish. It took him a good five minutes just to read one word. By then, the crowd was pushing and shoving at his back from the sidewalk, stunting his progress even further.

Vexed, he tried to focus even more, gritting his teeth. He hunched over the newspaper, bringing it an inch or two away from his eyes. Finally after another five minutes, he was able to read the whole article.

He read that the old man was indeed telling the truth. He was in London, England. Nico was about to walk away when a group of numbers caught his eye. He gaped, his eyes slightly bulging in surprise.

How was that _possible_? No wonder his father hadn't contacted him yet. He _couldn't._ Hades didn't send Nico here. Someone else did.

Because Nico was pretty sure that in the world he came from, it wasn't 1995.

* * *

"How many are you taking with you, Alastor?" Albus asked, staring expectantly at the shorter man.

Alastor grinned maniacally and replied, "Seven."

Albus raised his eyebrows. Alastor was a strange and daring fellow. He took risks and relied on himself as well as his allies. That was why he was one of the greatest Aurors that Albus had ever known.

"And how long will you estimate it will take?" the Headmaster of Hogwarts questioned once again.

He had other duties to attend to tonight; he could not lead the Order. None of the Hogwarts professors would be in Headquarters tonight. Lesson plans had to be made. But the most important reason was the matter of choosing a defense teacher.

Albus knew that Cornelius may try to interfere, which was why they needed to pick and choose carefully as well as quickly. It was only a matter of time before the Minister tried to stick a spy in Hogwarts.

As much fun as that would be, Albus did not like how large the chance of that happening was. Cornelius was not in his right mind at the moment.

"It may take an hour or two or a couple of days. It really depends on whether the boy can hide himself and hide himself well."

Albus nodded, considering.

"Very well. Gather the search party and begin immediately."

* * *

It was hours later, in the mid-afternoon, when Nico had found himself on a playground. He couldn't stop in one place, still stewing on his shock and anger at discovering his whereabouts. Who had sent him here? And for what reason? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

He'd played his part in this sick play!—a play abounding in grief and misery.

It wasn't very smart to stay in the playground, he knew, but after what Nico found out, he really didn't care. Someone had sent him back in time to do something and it may or may not have to do with the ripped souls.

The least the perpetrator could do was explain him or herself. Nico growled under his breath.

_It was always him._

When he had first gotten there, the playground had been deserted. Now it was slightly less empty, but as far as Nico was concerned it was teeming with life. Nico scowled. He wanted peace and quiet, not to hear the loud piercing shouts of some little kids. He clenched his fists as the little hellions, bursting with joy and happiness, swung on a creaking, miniature Mary-Go-Round.

_Annoying little brats._

(Though sometimes he wished he could regress back to that stage, innocent childhood . . .)

He sat on the edge of the playground, where the rectangular metal borders boxed in the mulch area. The only strange thing that he noticed was the fifteen-year-old boy that came a few minutes earlier.

He sat on one of the swings, spaced out and depressed. There was something off about the boy, but he had too much of a headache to do anything right now.

He was too busy brooding, wasn't he? How . . . _sad. _He settled down on the edge of the playground on his back, face staring up to the sky.

But he had better things to do than go on quests for nameless patrons—his eyes widened.

_What if . . . what if this isn't a quest?_

What if he'd simply fallen into an interdimensional gap or portal or some other instrument of conspiring magic?

The gods usually contacted demigods after all . . .

Horror gripped his thoughts.

_How am I supposed to get back?_

He found himself desperately hoping that this was a quest, praying to the gods that there was a means to an end, a means home . . .

A startled yelp shook him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw two boys—the lanky, depressed one from earlier and a walrus—running for their lives toward the road up ahead. Nico blinked in mild surprise as they dashed away.

Well . . . Nico cocked his head. He supposed the thin figure was the one doing the running. The walrus of a boy bounced across the hill, burning as much calories as he was fear. Though he supposed it was unfair to dub the boy a walrus. His size was due more to muscle than fat . . .

Nico snorted and slowly stood up to stretch. Walrus was oddly fitting, however, especially for one feeling vindictive.

His eyes followed the boys as their figures became tinier and tinier from the distance. They were trampling over the grass in a mad race to get to the . . . road.

Were they late for dinner?

A pang wrenched through Nico's chest. His breathing hitched before he settled back into a pattern. His stomach growled. He still hadn't gotten anything to eat. He felt weaker still . . .

The playground had emptied and the sky was overcast and grey, like it was going to storm. Ah. Perhaps that was why everyone left.

Grumbling, he followed their lead, scuttling quickly over the overgrown weeds across the open field. He forced his legs to step up the pace as he scrambled uphill. _Tired . . . so tired . . ._

_(Where, exactly, was he supposed to go?)_

Panting slightly, he finally reached the dark road.

_Dark? It's too early._

He threw another glance at the sky and was deeply surprised to find it very dark. It was like he was in the Underworld.

He furrowed his brows. Night shouldn't have come so early. It was unnatural—especially in the middle of summer. And now that Nico stopped to think about it, he realized that it was entirely too cold for the aforementioned season.

The temperature seemed fit for early winter but not mid-summer. He frowned. Something unnatural was _definitely_ going on here.

Ice began gathering rapidly on the ground over wilting flowers and grass. A sheet spread from the distance, moving like a thick, speedy fog. Confused, he made his way to the tunnel for cover.

(And before the water could reach him.)

The mouth of the tunnel took the shape of an arch, like a concrete frown echoing his sentiments of the storm. The top reached to the ten foot mark, quite a margin from where the top of Nico's head lay. The dim light extended as far as a few inches into the tunnel but that was it. It was instincts from there on out.

Nico took a suspicious step forward, testing the waters. He took another and another until finally he sighed. He was being silly. He resumed a regular walking pace.

A deep yelp invaded the silence. Wind rushed by, loud and forceful.

_Who . . .?_

Nico quickened his pace. He halted near the right edge of the moist wall, trying to concentrate, but the shuffles and whispers of movement weren't exactly helping.

He shouldn't grope around in this mysterious situation. For all he knew, a monster had found him. He stiffened at the thought and instinctually pulled out his sword.

The three-foot-long sword of Stygian Iron, black as nightmare, appeared in his outstretched hand. He gripped it tightly, to reassure himself it was there; he still couldn't see very well. But before he could recall the shadows to be his eyes, he heard another yell.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

Nico was just about to creep forward when a bright white light burst forth out of thin air. He jumped back as the whole tunnel erupted in a mass of blinding white. He briefly closed his eyes, opening them when the light faded somewhat, consolidating into a huge stag.

If he had been an admirer of art, he would have called it beautiful. The stag emanated joy and happiness.

Nico felt suffocated.

He stepped back further, until his back was pressed against the wall, his shirt dampening from the water.

The stag-shaped light leapt forward, prancing from right to left in a zigzag manner. But what it attacked left Nico completely stunned.

Floating in the midst of a tattered black cloak was a _soul guardian_.

Nico watched, frozen as the stag jumped onto the tall, thin figure, going straight for its head where a single hole resided for sucking emotions and souls.

A shuffle sounded to his right and Nico saw another one floating horizontally over the walrus teen from earlier, draining his happiness and joy in the form of a white, feathery mist.

Was he the one that yelled? No, that teen was too out of it. He looked sick and dazed—and not to mention fear-induced. Nico couldn't blame him, though.

Mortals couldn't see them after all . . . But . . . If that was the case . . .

Then who shouted? A demigod? No, they wouldn't shout some kind of Latin, they'd chant Greek. Nico's head was swimming.

His stomach growled. His head hurt. The pains rebounded wildly and he gritted his teeth. _Why now . . . ?_

Nico shut out the pain and looked back up, catching a glimpse of the skinny boy from earlier clutching a stick in front of the sole soul guardian, focused intensely on directing his stag. Was he a demigod? But . . . no demigod would use a stick. And then that light he was controlling . . .

That wasn't a typical power for his kind unless . . . _Oh_.

Magic. The boy was a wizard.

_Here's my proof, _Nico thought, scowling.

But how could he see the soul guardian? He was a mortal. Perhaps Hecate's magic allowed him?

That still didn't explain why the soul guardians were here. They resided in the Underworld, tormentors to those confined to the fields of Punishment. Though there was only a small portion of them, they were immensely loyal creatures both to Hades and his children.

Hades surmised that rest of them may be on the mortal plane living as Rogues and had ordered the killing of them if any were to be found. Well, Nico supposed he had just confirmed his father's theory.

The stag was doing a number on the Rogue, but it would not be enough to kill it. Happiness was a brilliant weapon against these beings, but it wasn't a killing weapon.

(Good thing. He didn't have any happiness to spare.)

He sent his sword back into the shadows. He felt strangely cold without it, like a part of him was missing.

With a grunt, he called forth two small but deadly knifes—created from the same material as his sword.

They materialized instantly in both of his hands, ready to throw. Ignoring his exhaustion and pain, he took a step back and aimed. He squinted at his unmoving target, taking a nice long look at its central killing point—the core. It moved a little. _Dammit. _He blinked until it stood still.

He flicked his wrist and away the knife zoomed. It flipped over continuously in the air until hitting its target dead on. Nico sighed in relief as the soul guardian exploded into dust with a bone chilling scream, the knife with it. He hadn't been sure his aim would be true. His arms shook.

He turned around to face the left side of the dark tunnel. He took aim and fired.

The knife hit its target, embedding itself in the Rogue's exposed chest. It barely had time to shriek before it disintegrated from view. He slumped against the wall, hands on his knees, like someone had dropped Atlas' burden on his shoulder; he was so exhausted from that one little thing . . . so _weak_.

_Fuck, I need food._

"What . . .? How did you . . . ? I thought—" a masculine voice whispered in awe.

Alarmed, Nico turned around to face the figure shrouded in the darkness of distance, slowly dragging his feet forth. He'd forgotten all about him.

His head pounded warningly.

The boy's emerald eyes stared at him in amazement. Nico stared back at him indifferently, silent.

_"How_ did you do that? I've never been able to destroy a dementor."

Nico surveyed him, making note of his messy black hair and small, skinny build. _Not a threat, well other than the magic part_. He was wearing clothes three sizes too big, probably from the walrus boy to the right who still trembled on the floor, whimpering silently.

Ignoring the boy's previous questions, he queried, "Who are you?"

The boy blinked. "What? You don't know? Well maybe it's because you can't see me . . .," he muttered, stepping into a patch of light.

The only peculiar thing that Nico didn't notice before was an ugly, red lightning bolt-shaped scar in the corner of his head. Just staring at the scar, Nico felt it—the feeling of complete and absolute agony.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite_.

He winced at the sudden feeling as the boy rubbed his scar. His eyes narrowed dangerously. It was him. The boy was the piece of soul Nico had felt in that building earlier.

He eyed the boy menacingly. The boy did the same but held up his stick. If he was wary before, he was suspicious now—highly suspicious.

"Who are you?" he demanded, defiance smoldering in his emerald orbs.

"Are you a Death Eater? Are you working with Voldemort?"

Nico raised an eyebrow, sending the boy a cold glance.

"What the Hades are you talking about?"

The boy narrowed his eyes.

"Don't play dumb with me," the boy growled, "I'll repeat it one more time. Are you a death eater?"

_Death eater? _Why would he want to eat death? He snorted, picturing himself trying to devour Thanatos. The boy bristled at the sound; the term seemed to have some significance to the boy—a bad significance. His stomach protested again, singing for nourishment. He hid his pained grimace.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about—"

"_Harry!_ Dear boy, are you alright? _I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"_

An old lady with a string bag in hand and strands of grizzled-gray hair slipping out of her hairnet hurried forth, frazzled and worry-stricken. Her half-filled slippers slapped against the ground as she hustled to catch up with the newly identified 'Harry.'

The boy lowered his wand and blinked in utter surprise.

"Mrs. Figg? What are you—?"

She interrupted him, "Don't put that wand away! They might come back!"

Harry blinked again, looking from his wand to 'Mrs. Figg' with an expression of utter bewilderment. Nico observed warily.

"But—"

"Do it just in case!" she interrupted again. She didn't spare Nico or the walrus whimpering on the floor a glance.

"But Mrs. Figg—" Harry tried again, but the old woman would have none of it.

"Why are you protesting—?"

"_Because the dementors are dead!"_

Harry looked angry with himself after he yelled, clamping his jaw shut. Mrs. Figg was speechless. Nico took a step back, eyes looking longingly at the exit of the tunnel. He probably wouldn't get far. He needed food. He was too weak to shadow travel. His hands trembled and he shivered, sweat beading on his forehead.

Mrs. Figg looked back up at him with awe stretched out on her worn features.

"They told me you were powerful but I didn't know you were this powerful."

Harry looked annoyed. His expression buzzed with questions and confusion.

"They? Who are 'they'? And I didn't kill them. _He_ did!"

Now it was Mrs. Figg's turn to look baffled.

"Who?"

For the first time that night, Mrs. Figg averted her gaze from Harry and looked directly at Nico.

"You? Who are you?"

She turned to Harry and whispered, "Is he a muggle?"

Nico sighed. He didn't know what a muggle was and he didn't know what was going on, though he assumed that the other two present thought the soul guardians to be called 'dementors.'

Harry once again raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"No, he couldn't be. He killed them. And how do you know about muggles? Are you a witch?" he questioned, but Nico heard a slight anger bubbling underneath.

Mrs. Figg gave him a strange look.

"I'm a squib, Harry. I can't do an ounce of magic to save my life! Something that Mundungus Fletcher knows full well—"

"You're a—and nobody thought to tell me anything? That's just bloody brilliant."

_I know the feeling. _Nico grunted.

Harry glared at him before turning his attention back to the elderly lady grumbling about a Mundungus Fletcher. The two were side by side against the wall opposite to Nico. If he wanted to leave, now would be a good time to do it. If only he could shadow travel . . . He needed food. Could this boy help him . . .? Nico viciously scrapped the thought. No, he didn't need any help. He could help himself.

His attention turned back to the two who were oblivious to the walrus still quivering on the floor. Nico quietly padded to the huge teen while Harry and Mrs. Figg talked about something or another.

He bent down and poked the large boy. The walrus groaned loudly. Nico stared at him, nonplussed. He would be fine.

He stood back up, noticing his heavy limbs. Damn he didn't feel so good . . . But he'd gone on in worse circumstances than this. Another loud groan sounded from the boy on the floor. He hoped his stomach wouldn't join in.

Conversation behind him had halted as the pair was reminded that they had company.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about Dudley," Harry muttered.

Mrs. Figg frowned disapprovingly at 'Dudley' on the floor.

"Get up, lazy bones! Harry, you need to get him out of here. The boy looks like he's about to faint. Merlin knows what your aunt and uncle are going to do . . ."

Nico's eyes gleamed. Was Harry an orphan?

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, sighing.

He walked forward to the heap on the floor and picked up his left arm. Mrs. Figg was about to follow but a loud, popping noise froze her mid-step. Her face boiled in rage and she stormed down the opposite end of the tunnel.

Nico heard some shouts and shuffles, but chose to ignore it; it wasn't his concern. Turning his attention back to Harry, he saw the skinny boy trying to haul the walrus up, but only succeeded in dropping Dudley. Nico watched as Harry went through Trial and Error, a smirk catching onto the corners of his lips.

Finally, he offered, "Need some help?"

_As long as I get to raid your pantry . . ._

Harry looked at Nico gratefully as replied, "I'd appreciate it, thanks."

He seemed to have forgotten all earlier suspicion. But things were never as they seemed. Perhaps he had changed his views when talking to that woman?

With a nod, Nico grabbed the other arm and together they hauled up the unconscious boy. Nico grunted, trying to hide the dizziness and nausea creeping along his body.

Slinging Dudley's right arm over his shoulder, he waited for Harry to do the same.

Once that was done, they were off.

"Duddy-kins? _Dudley, oh my—!_ Vernon—Vernon, come quick! _Vernon_!"

Nico and Harry had successfully dragged Dudley back to his parents. He knew the parents would be frightened, but he underestimated to what degree.

His mother—a woman with a short, blonde mane and a body as skinny as a rail—had come rushing out onto the porch at the first sound. Her terrified eyes swept right over Nico and Harry without a second glance as she took in her son's less than healthy appearance.

After shrieking in terror, she assumingly called for her husband. She pried Dudley out of Nico's and Harry's grasp, leaving both of them to wonder how such a skinny woman could carry a heavy weight.

_Perhaps she eats three meals a day, _Nico thought bitterly. His stomach was doing flips and twirls now.

Harry stepped inside. The door shut before Nico could go in and perhaps sneak some food. He grimaced as the hunger pains multiplied. He collapsed onto the floor of the porch steps, carefully avoiding the steps.

There was a distinct lack of chairs and surplus of . . . flowers.

His eyes had just barely swept over the homogenous neighborhood before a yawn lulled them to close. He had used too much energy today without gaining any—

Nico was asleep before he even finished that thought.


	3. A Promise Made

"Has Nico di Angelo been found yet?" Albus asked. Alastor's fake eye whizzed over him, lips curling into an irritated frown.

"No, not yet. He's a slippery one," he muttered.

Albus frowned slightly. This was taking an unusually long time. Nico di Angelo . . . _he is certainly an interesting person—_

_Crash! _Albus' heart skipped a beat.

The noise came from the back of his office—the Floo system.

"Excuse me, Alastor."

Alastor obliged and stood with his staff clutched tightly in his hands. His knuckles were white; his body tense. Was there an attack?

The jolly professor reappeared within his field of vision, his face sheet-white.

Alastor immediately narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"What happened?" he barked.

Albus opened his mouth, his eyes grave.

"I am afraid Harry was just attacked by dementors. The ministry is trying to expel him for underage wizardry. I sent them a letter for a trial but it will not be easy to persuade them. We must bring Harry to headquarters now."

* * *

Nico was awakened by a painful kick to his stomach. His eyes snapped open and his stomach lurched. He fought not to throw up. A death glare formed on his face.

"What the Hades_?"_ he growled, looking for the perpetrator.

But the second he found them, he wished he hadn't. It was the man with the eye patch and his squadron of stick wielders. Nico glowered at them all, slowly creeping to the left of the porch. He was still too weak . . .

But before he could take another step, the man raised his staff at him threateningly.

"Don't move another inch," he barked.

Reluctantly, Nico complied.

And when the girl with purple hair stepped forward, waving her wand and yelling a bunch of Latin, he couldn't do anything to avoid the red light sent his way.

Nico stared at it, paralyzed. He felt like a spectator of the events, dazed and confused. He couldn't move; it was like his body was in a straitjacket. The realization of what it was hit him only as the light did. Power pushed at his chest and forced him back, slamming him against the wall. His head throbbed like he'd been hit with a huge stone.

He fell into a black void.

* * *

"Young man, would you oblige an old man's curiosity and explain how you infiltrated this location?"

This question again. They'd repeated it at least twenty times, although in different context. But even so, Nico refused to speak. He kept his mouth closed and glared, silently fuming, at the assembled group before him.

"Why were you at Harry's house?"

They'd knocked him out, kidnapped him, and brought him back to the very place that he'd _mistakenly_ come upon.

Everything always happened to _him_.

He was in some kind of meeting room. The room was bland and grey, like some sort of jail cell. That was certainly what it felt like. He was the prisoner and they were his jailers. Dust and grime decorated the walls like scars, blending together to create a striking portrait of slashes and blemishes. It was a paradox—

"Young man?"

—a trail of tears so beautiful it was terrible. The tears, invisible to all but him (_how lucky the innocent were_) sparkled in the light, blue and crystalline . . . but a plague was trapped within the beauty, poisoning the seams, the surface, everything.

"Mr. di Angelo?" His eyes snapped to the old man's blue orbs. Blue, crystal tears . . . His head hurt and he averted his eyes.

He sat at a table, framed on all sides by suspicious wizards and witches.

They were clumped together around the table, trying to crowd his personal space as much as possible. Nico could count the amount of freckles on the old man to his right.

The old man that had led the interrogation before he escaped was the only one standing. He and the man with the eye patch—that he had found out was called 'Moody'—were the lead interrogators tonight. He also overheard the old man's name: Dumbledore.

"Boy, you will tell us," Moody growled, shoving his face in Nico's line of sight.

He was tied up to the point that his head couldn't turn, even if he really wanted it to. Nico kept his mouth shut, wishing he had a gag. That would have been his excuse.

Even as his attention was focused on the assembly of magical mortals before him, he couldn't help but wonder how he was going to get out of here and back to his own time. He could only imagine Percy and Annabeth leading a search party.

"_Look in the graveyards! The memorials! The Underworld! The Hades Cabin! McDonalds . . ."_

Nico smiled bitterly. They were the only ones that cared. (Though he supposed that was his own fault . . .)

After firing more unanswered questions, the wizards finally gave up. The old man was haggard and exhausted.

The twinkle in his eye had disappeared a long time ago. He sighed and called it a day.

"We should have asked Harry first. Alastor, would you please escort Mr. di Angelo to his room?"

The name piqued Nico's interest, overriding his reluctance of being led by Moody. So the boy shared some connection to these people. _Well . . . they're all wizards within the same area . . ._

That statement meant the boy was here, as well. He could work on trying to get the ripped soul out of him. _Once I get my strength back of course . . ._

"Come on."

Moody grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward. Nico walked through the semi-familiar hallway with Moody on his tail until they came upon a dark door. Moody forced the door open, letting it hit the wall with a loud crash.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nico saw Moody point his staff at Nico and mutter something. The ropes disappeared; Nico immediately massaged his itchy arms.

Just before the man shut the door he said, "This room has been charmed so that you cannot escape. If you try, I will know."

Nico scowled.

* * *

Just before Albus left, he called Harry to talk to him. As soon as Albus saw the boy, a pang of regret entered his heart. Harry looked worn, as if an England-sized weight had been shoved on his shoulders.

Even so, there was still fire in his eyes. To think he was going to ignore the boy.

"Harry, Mrs. Figg told me you destroyed the dementors. Is this true?"

If it was, then Harry had performed a remarkable feat. Albus had never seen a wizard able to kill those soul sucking creatures. Even_ he_ couldn't kill one. This could be an astonishing testament to the abilities of the Boy-Who-Lived if true.

And the thought of every Light wizard possessing such an ability, the ability to fend off personifications of evil, Voldemort's prized weapons of death . . . It was certainly an appealing thought.

Harry's reaction said otherwise. His shoulders sagged in exasperation and he shook his head.

"No, Professor. Someone else killed them."

Intrigued, Dumbledore leaned forward. Even though they were in the spacious meeting room of the Order, curiosity knew no bounds. _This person would be a remarkable ally._

"Who, my boy?"

Harry hesitated. His expression turned uneasy but nonetheless, he knew Harry will answer him.

"Well, I don't know actually. It was this boy . . ."

Harry described him. Albus felt a certain foreboding feeling erupt at the description. He knew a person that matched that physique . . .

"Professor?"

Albus snapped out of his wonderings and smiled at Harry.

"Yes, Harry?"

Harry's eyes darkened with suspicion and caution.

"When the boy saw my scar, it began to hurt. At first I thought he may have a connection to Voldemort but then I saw that he was in pain, too. What do you think happened?"

Oh, Albus thought something alright. As strange as Harry's account was, it confirmed Albus' suspicion. There was only one boy like that, shrouded in mystery.

Nico di Angelo.

* * *

Nico woke up disorientated and groggy. That red spell left an aftertaste of pain in his chest. He cursed silently, pitifully. His vision swam. There was a ball inside him, as small as a golf ball but as heavy as a bowling ball. It moved and moved and moved, rolling everywhere, inflicting pain and more pain.

His stomach howled like a banshee, electrifying agony biting and blistering. He panted roughly, eyes closed, waiting for it to pass. But it didn't. It suffocated him, wrapped him in a blanket of pain and squeezed ever tighter; it was a permanent collar, stuck to him as if by an unbreakable chemical bond. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, bent over. His forehead touched his knees. His clothes—_jeans_—grew damp.

_(Stop . . . please stop . . .)_

He heard footsteps coming. His stomach unleashed a volcanic eruption, grumbling audibly, and Cerberus rode on top, the harbinger of hell. Eyes as red as blood, teeth as sharp as swords—he recoiled as the door slowly opened, struggling to stand up. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain as best as he could. But he could hardly move.

He glared at the newcomer as he stepped inside, slowly unraveling from his curled position. An avalanche of light poured in and he squinted. He sent a desperate plea to the gods, to his father, to take away the pain.

_But . . . _the agony remained.

The old man, Dumbledore, dressed in a horrible combination of pink and orange robes with a navy blue rim closed the door behind him, blue eyes taking in Nico's appearance, analyzing him, judging him. Nico tried to squash the pain and sat straighter, hoping to look intimidating. His face was certainly screwed into enough of a knot to convey a negative image.

Nico scrutinized the old wizard. An aura of power wafted off the man, moving through the air like a breeze had entered the room, carrying it far and wide. Nico was unaffected. This man was an ant compared to the gods.

(_Especially an angry Zeus. . .)_

He waited for the man to speak.

"Good morning, Nico," the old man smiled. "Harry told me you bested the dementors sent to attack him; that you destroyed them with little to no effort. That is no ordinary feat, especially if you are a muggle—which I have no doubt that you are not. Muggles cannot see dementors. So I will ask again—are you of magical origins?"

Nico stiffened.

"No, I am not a wizard," he stated quietly. A match of swordplay must have been playing out in his stomach, organs with lives of their own fighting and slashing; he bore the result. He held back a growl and tried to school his expression.

"Then how did you destroy the dementors?" the old man asked.

Nico paused, narrowing his eyes. Information was everything in this world.

_Why is he asking so much of me?_

"I stuck a knife through it," he responded carefully. "The soul guardians are as mortal as anyone else. They bleed; they die."

His bluntness zoomed the air and bound the old man's mouth like masking tape. The tension between the two was palpable.

"Yes, but Harry told me they incinerated on the spot. . ."

_Soul guardians . . ._ That probably had an interesting mythology behind it but Albus knew better than to ask.

Dumbledore eyed the young boy in front of him. The boy was definitely guarded, not divulging any information. But one thing was for sure—Nico di Angelo was powerful. Especially if he could kill a dementor, a feat no wizard had achieved.

But he claimed he was not a wizard. So what could he be? A muggle with powers? _That is unheard of and impossible. (_But . . . wasn't anything possible with magic?) Or was his previous claim true? Did he really kill a dementor with muggle weapons?

Even if he was a muggle, however, that did not explain how he could see those creatures.

Perhaps he was a Squib but unaware of his heritage?

Dumbledore grew more and more baffled by the second. Nico saw the puzzled gears cranking out directly on his face. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

Finally Dumbledore asked, "Have you ever heard of a Lord Voldemort?"

His mind recognized the term just barely but Nico couldn't remember where. His stomach whispered pleas to him, _food, food . . ._ He ignored it.

"Who?"

Dumbledore surprised him by smiling. Nico was even more confused.

_What's going on . . .? This is making my head hurt._

(_Though that wasn't the only factor. ._ . he thought ruefully.)

Albus Dumbledore was pleased. He saw genuine confusion on the boy's face. Either the boy was telling the truth or he was a very good actor. Either way, Dumbledore wanted him close.

Someone powerful enough to breach the Fidelis Charm without even realizing it, destroy a sacred heirloom, and kill dementors was an asset to either side, magical or not. And Dumbledore was pretty sure the boy was not involved with the wizarding world.

Even though he wanted to know the boy's secrets, he shall respect his privacy for now. He had an offer for Nico di Angelo—an offer that may or may not help Harry. _Because I cannot this year._

"Mr. di Angelo, would you like to attend Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Instead of excitement he expected, Dumbledore received another reaction.

"Huh?"

Hogwarts? He furrowed his eyebrows. It was certainly a strange name for a school (he would have laughed at the name in different circumstances) or anything really . . . but why was he being invited? A magic school was a magic school—a school where Nico wouldn't be able to do squat. He was a demigod, not a wizard.

"I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts, where magic is taught, and I am extending an invitation for you to attend."

"I'm not a wizard. I can't do magic," Nico deadpanned. _Stop wasting my time._

Dumbledore pursed his lips, a twinkle appearing in his eye.

"Ah, that is a problem. Then perhaps you can be our guest?"

Nico narrowed his eyes. _What does he want from me?_

"You would merely observe the classes," Dumbledore continued. "You would not have to participate in classes and you would have freedoms that students do not."

Nico still felt like he was missing something—

"What do you want from me?"

His voice was ice and Dumbledore was caught within his snare.

_(His stomach . . . His stomach was a roaring furnace with nothing to feed itself with. How was it sustaining? Was it feeding off his organs? His intestines? Or perhaps his sanity . . .)_

Dumbledore flinched. "Young man, I am simply offering you an opportunity; never would I—"

"_Stop._"

Albus stopped in mid-sentence, surprised.

"Do not play games with me. It will not end well for you."

Was that a threat? Albus furrowed his eyes, shivering at the similarity between this young man and another he knew years ago . . .

_A child threatening me . . . a mere child. Who is he? _Deep in his heart, he wanted to ask, _what was he?_

"Now I will ask again: what do you want from me?" His head pounded, his stomach ached and _gods . . . I need food._

The old man sobered, like Nico had told him a dog had died and he couldn't save it.

Nico watched him harshly. The silence was almost deafening.

"I admit that I have a purpose for this request but it is not by any means a nefarious request. I am only one person and there is only so much I can do," he paused and looked straight at Nico. It was unsettling. Nico tried not to fidget.

"Mr. di Angelo, I am asking you to keep an eye on Harry. He has been marked by Lord Voldemort, a dark wizard aiming to kill him. But, sadly, the wizarding community does not believe in his return. Our minister has been doing everything in his power to shun Harry and unfortunately I am powerless to stop it. Will you accept this offer?"

The word 'return' caught Nico's attention. Return from what? His suspicions increased tenfold.

This Voldemort might be the origin of the ripped pieces of soul . . .

That would explain its presence on Harry. And if that was the case, this wizard was attempting to cheat death. _Even so, why should I risk my neck in a conflict I have nothing to do with?_

The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

"Why should I?" Nico retorted. "You have not done anything for me. You've done much more _to _me. That's not a very good technique for trying to win over allies."

Albus felt desperation clawing at the edges of his mind. Ashamed though he was for the treatment this boy had been put through on his orders, he had a compelling need to keep this boy close, under watch. _That is shameful in itself. But this is war._

"What if I were to offer you something in return? Compensation, if you will, added onto my request. I formally apologize for all the wrongs that my fellow friends and supporters have committed against you. You do not need to accept my apology, but I would greatly appreciate if you would accept my offer."

Nico sneered at him. "Apologies are shortcuts, old man. They are empty promises. How do I know you're not lying to me? How do I know you're sincere?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to hide a wince. "Nothing short of begging on your knees would convince me."

The old man surprised him, shocked him even, by standing up and crouching on the floor. He got down on his knees and looked up beseechingly. Nico froze. _What . . . why is he doing this? I wasn't serious._

Why did he _want_ Nico so much? No one ever wanted him.

It made him feel uncomfortable.

"You can see how much I would value your presence Mr. di Angelo. I ask again, will you accept my offer?"

Nico opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was shocked. He was unsettled. His eyes were wide and he'd never felt so awkward in his life. This wasn't supposed to happen! He was supposed to have been rejected . . . but . . . did he really want that?

He took a deep breath, swallowing the wave of pain pulsating throughout his body. He was tired. He couldn't deal with this shit.

"Mr. di Angelo?"

Nico's attention snapped back to the old man who was still on the floor. What . . . what was he supposed to say?

Maybe he should just accept. He could always weasel his way out of it later. _No. No! I've done that too much already . . . No more empty promises._

But . . . he wasn't thinking right. He needed food. By the gods he needed food. He had taken much more pain worse than this but he wasn't in his right mind. _What . . . is happening to me . . . ?_

". . . I will accept on one condition."

The old man glowed. Smiling, he asked, "What is your condition?"

Nico knew he would sound silly saying this but it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

"Food. You feed me."

The old man blinked at him, puzzled. Nico ignored it. His stomach rumbled audibly.

"Ah . . . of course. I shall ask Molly to whip you up a meal. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. di Angelo. I appreciate this gesture."

He left.

* * *

He was in the library. An inferno raged on the walls, dust springing from the sanguine paint like mini volcanic eruptions of ash. It made the room look old and unused, but the halfway-pushed in chairs told another story. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating the rows and rows of books. They glittered like jewels, as if the sun had vomited a rainbow of gold, encasing all of the books in a sparkling varnish. As far as Nico was concerned, he was in between two houses from _Deck the Halls_, each battling to literally outshine the other. An opened book sat in front of him, detailing the reign and history of the supposed Dark Lord of the wizarding world.

He wouldn't normally choose a library as a sanctuary (he was more likely to choose a dark corner of a deserted alleyway) but it seemed to be the only room in the entire apartment where he could find a little bit of solace and . . . no people. . . even if temporary. _Thank the gods these people aren't nerds._

"Who are you?"

_Spoke too soon._

The girl had an intelligent look about her—crisp and clean. Her clothes were impeccably smooth and her hair, although it was bushy and could pass for the Empire State Building, was tucked into a neat ponytail. She was attractive but Annabeth easily schooled her in exoticism.

She was a simple beauty—glittering brown hair and eyes were what one observed at a single glance but then that glance extended outward, taking a tour on the subtle curves of her slender body, eyes resting upon the angular structure of her face. She had high cheekbones, innocent, wide-set eyes and thin, arched eyebrows that gave her a look of immeasurable curiosity.

She didn't seem to be aware of herself, of her own femininity. She didn't fill the room when she entered; she didn't have Annabeth's _intensity. _Nonetheless, she radiated confidence in her five-foot space bubble. She stood straight, her prominent chin held up high, as her brown eyes devoured his ruffled appearance, curious and . . . guarded.

(She would be stupid if she wasn't. After all—stranger danger.)

"Does British society have differing view on politeness or isn't it rude not to introduce yourself before demanding who the other is?"

She colored. Nico saw a flash of steel pass over her face.

"I'm sorry; you're right. That was rude. I'm Hermione Granger and you are . . . ?"

". . . Not interested," he finished, giving her a blasé look. She blinked.

"Excuse me? You are the one who pointed out etiquette."

"Yes but I didn't say _I _followed it did I?" Nico deadpanned.

He didn't like her kind of people—pushy, arrogant, know-it-alls. She probably got all 100's or A's or whatever the hell meant full marks on whatever the hell the wizards took. Damn. He was awfully moody today.

She frowned. "No, you didn't but I don't even know you. What did I do to warrant your . . . behavior?"

"Nothing," Nico replied, "I just don't feel like talking."

"Well, you're talking right now."

"Yes and I'm about to throw up in three . . ."

She looked at him funny as he leaned forward.

" . . . Two . . ."

He grabbed the small, black trashcan under the table. She began to look weary and backed up.

" . . . One . . ."

He heard receding footsteps as he ducked his head into the trashcan.

"Now." He looked up to an empty room. _Good. She's gone._

He dropped the trashcan in a languid fashion and slumped in his seat, smirking. _Who knew it was so fun to mess with wizards._

It had been two days since he'd struck a deal with that old man. And true to his word, he kept Nico fed. The first time he ate, he couldn't finish it all and nearly retched. But the next few times it was damn satisfying to his empty stomach. He'd spent most of the time avoiding the other inhabitants and had managed it . . . until now. He sighed. He knew he would have to meet them sooner or later but . . . he didn't have to today. Or the next day. Or the next day after that. Or—the cycle continued. And even when he was faced with the unavoidable confrontation, he still wouldn't act.

He didn't know the rules or how to play this game, yet the players were still sticking him out there because they were desperate enough. They wanted to win.

But he wanted to be a benchwarmer.

People, being social . . . It was never his strength. He was a loner. Hell, he was born from shadows. It was practically his nature to be alone. His father was a loner, confined to the extent of the Underworld since eternity and only now resurfacing from all that forced isolation. It was kind of in the family.

"—he's right in there."

He went rigid. Damn. He hadn't expected her to get someone because he was "sick." Glaring at the quickly advancing shadows, he shadow-travelled to his room. It was like taking a cold shower, refreshing and rejuvenating but at the same time shocking and brutal. He closed his eyes, rubbing them. His hands were cold, sending shivers down his back. He scowled at them.

_Stop dicking around and go out there._

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He wasn't ready. He didn't know them enough. He had to gather more information.

But in the end, he knew those were flimsy excuses. The truth hurt too much to admit.

* * *

Something wasn't right.

He walked forward cautiously. The room was dark and dreary, like black fog had rolled in and hadn't cleared up since.

Nico raised his eyebrows, looking the shadowy room over. He poked the walls . . . and recoiled as it responded to his touch like a blanket. The area that he'd poked refilled. Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep . . . something in his mind clicked.

_Is this my dreamscape?_

If it was, he wouldn't be here unless a god or goddess wanted to meet with him. He was sure he wouldn't be conscious during his dreams unless they were demigod dreams or contact dreams. This was supposedly the latter.

At that thought he felt a tremendous sense of relief. This was a quest. He wasn't trapped.

_There was a way home. An end. Security. Rest._

He almost jumped when a rush of air blasted past him, like a rocket took off inches from his face. He whipped around and saw a figure standing a few yards away. Smooth olive skin, like his, encompassed the figure's body; it was the body of a bodybuilder—packed with muscle. The figure was tall, but not overly so, and wore a sense of death and decay like a cloak, daring anyone to challenge him. He emitted power in volumes, so tremendous in amount that it distorted the air around him. He shimmered like a beacon, an angel . . . a god.

He had sharp features and straight eyebrows that would have given him an expression of constant nonchalance, if not for his eyes. His intense, inky-black orbs bore down into Nico's, angry and fiery like they were trying to smash him into smithereens.

It was his father.

The only god that gave a shit about him (which didn't mean much).

Hades' shoulder-length obsidian hair wasn't the least affected by the mini tornado in which he arrived and nor was his soul-threaded, silk robes which hung over him like a curtain. Had he been a son of Aphrodite, he might have been jealous. But he was neither the son of the Greek fashionista or _fabulous._ As many people had _generously _informed him, he would be categorized as a 'Fashion Assassin.'

"Father," Nico greeted, dipping his head.

Hades stared at him a moment longer before reciprocating the greeting, "Son."

Nico almost fidgeted under his father's gaze.

(Or was he really a father? When had he been there for him?)

Nico felt so damn _awkward_ in Hade's presence_. _His father just stood there like a statue, his face blank and still as angry eyes devoured him (his soul, it seemed). Alarm bells rang in his head, his stomach, throughout his entire body. As each bell jingled, it seemed like it scraped over a blackboard each and every time, producing this ear-curdling noise that made him want to cringe and ball his eyes out.

Uneasiness gripped his movements and he became aware of the startling gap between father and son, the insurmountable abyss. One a mortal, the other a god. A family they were not. His_ family_ was dead.

Swallowing, "You called for me?"

That was exactly the wrong thing to say. Hades' expression hardened, eyes freezing into black ice. _Way to go, Braindead._

"I did not," Hades ground out through gritted teeth.

Nico's peered at him in confusion. Then . . . why . . .?

"You were sucked into a portal."

Nico's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Horror paraded around his thoughts, merciless and deadly.

He swallowed a frog-sized lump, wanting to deny his father's words, deny everything.

Deny his worst fear.

_How . . . will I get home?_

Unbridled ferocity clouded the room, visible and palpable. The fog condensed, angry and black, hardening into obsidian rock that could slice through a skyscraper in a single swipe. They now stood in a labyrinth of black stone and shadows, the obsidian walls of the maze seemingly formed by cooling seconds after it was thrown. Its jagged, curved edges surrounded Nico like a circle of spears.

(One false step meant death.)

_It wasn't fair._

_It._

_Wasn't._

_Fair._

_No one_ gave a damn about what _he _wanted.

_No one._

"I cannot bring you back. You are stuck_."_

Nico flinched. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He'd been depressed. He'd felt despair. But he'd always held onto some semblance of hope but now, like all of nature's maladies escaping Pandora's Box, _that hope was gone._

"_However," _the god continued. "The portal through which you went is merely a portal that transports through time. You have not left this dimension. You may have to wait it out. Unless you find help. If you do wait it out, you will remain outside the time's domain. Such is the magic of the portals."

_Help. _Nico stilled. _Magic? Wizards? Would—would they be able to—?_

But before he could finish the thought, his dreamscape began to fade. His father flickered, yet his voice did not.

"My soul guardians will act as messengers from now on. Contacting you took an enormous amount of energy. Do not expect any others. Farewell, my son."

And the world went black.

* * *

"Nico? Nico, dear, its time for breakfast! Hurry up!"

Nico snapped awake. Food . . . He stood up sluggishly, pushed on only by the reward. Food and energy. Then everything caught up with him.

The meeting. His father. _Stuck._ His mind reeled.

He took a shuddering breath and descended the stairs to the kitchen, trying to make haste.

He wished he hadn't made haste. He wished he'd waited and been a lazy bum. Because when he entered through the door, it was like a stage light shined on him from above and a microphone was shoved into his hands. Many different eyes stared at him, some curious, others quizzical, but most distrusting.

_. . . I should have waited._

Everyone in the organization had to be there for breakfast this morning. The table was full, only one slot left at the very edge, in between a red-headed girl and a red-headed boy—siblings, he bet.

"Good morning, Nico! What are you waiting for? Come on in and eat," Mrs. Weasley greeted with a smile as she herself sat down. She was a stout woman, a little too plump in bodyweight, but she had a good heart. Nico envied her and her family.

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," he replied as he sat down between the two siblings. Even though they gave him a wide berth, their eyes transcended that distance and stared at him like he was the rarest animal in a zoo.

He picked up the silverware beside the plate and hurriedly dug into the stack of pancakes, his posture tense like a wild animal in the midst of humans. He felt eyes on him from every angle, combining with the terrible, awkward silence to create an invisible sword—one that slashed him to pieces before he even knew what was happening. And even once he knew, he couldn't do anything to stop it.

He clutched his silverware tightly as he cut the pancakes, the noise of metal dinging against the plate ringing out like a loud fart in a silent room. He ate, coiled and jumpy, feeling those eyes on him all the while. It felt like the whole of New York was watching him. His teeth clenched.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. _"Yes?"_ he snapped, angry dark eyes staring at the tens of thousands of eyes stalking his every move.

The perpetrators jumped and quickly averted their gazes, muttering multiple apologies. He gave a terse nod of acknowledgement and finished the rest of his pancakes. Muffled conversation reached his ears but he ignored it in favor of finishing. He needed to get out of here.

"So . . . My name's Ron. Er, what's yours?"

The boy was tall and gangly—he could tell even when the boy was sitting down—with a face resembling a weasel. His eyebrows were almost nonexistent, giving him a look of perpetual surprise and the blue, wide-set eyes radiated a feeling of naivety and innocence. The one feature that popped out to him was the red hair that lay over the boy's head like a large, neon umbrella. Nico just stared at the boy, raising a single eyebrow. He looked sincere enough, but Nico never trusted appearances.

"Nico di Angelo."

Ron attempted to smile, but it came out pained and awkward. Nico looked away. Everywhere he went, silence and awkwardness dogged his footsteps like a shadow.

"Nico? We met before when you saved my life so I want to thank you for that . . . I'm Harry by the way, if you didn't get my name earlier." _So I was right. He is here._

Nico nodded towards him, "You're welcome." Then his mouth closed like a door slammed shut. Harry's expression looked like it took a dip in a blender. It was convolution of distress and irritation. Did he want Nico to start a conversation with him? _Hell no. I didn't sign up for this._

"So, ah, what exactly are you, erm, doing here?" Harry asked, slowly and unsurely. A gasp sounded to his right.

_"Harry!"_ the girl from yesterday, Hermione Granger, sounded abashed. Nico looked skeptically at Harry.

"What am I doing here? Simple, I'm eating breakfast like you are. Is that so hard to comprehend?" he responded dryly.

Muffled laughter came from two red-headed twins at the end of the table, both thin, tall and elven in appearance. Their eyebrows turned sharply downward at the curve of the face, giving them an air of mischievousness. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't so amused.

"No," he said with barely restrained frustration, "I mean—what are you doing in Headquarters? I thought this place was for the Order of—uh, I mean certain people only."

Nico deadpanned at him. "You think I don't know the name of the organization I have joined?" Harry, Ron, Hermione, the twins—all the children in fact—gaped at him.

"W-What? You mean that you're in the Order of the Phoenix? But how? I thought there was an age restriction!"

Nico smirked. "If not that, then I suppose it's a power restriction."

They glared at him. Nico stood up abruptly, chair legs screeching over the tile and looked towards Mrs. Weasley with a cool expression. "Thank you for breakfast," he said. "It was delicious."

Then he left.

Silence reigned in the kitchen. The members where staring at the wooden door, where Nico had left so suddenly.

"Well, then," Ginny scoffed. "We won't have to worry about being rude in the future to him since he's practically invited us to be_._"

Mrs. Weasley shushed her. "He's had a hard few days, Ginny. You shouldn't say such things about him, especially behind his back!"

"But Mum—"

"I don't want to hear it, young lady. Be polite." She waved her wand and piled up all the dishes in the sink. With another swish, they began washing themselves. The food vanished from the table, much to Ron's sorrow.

"Wait! I wasn't done!"

"Well everyone else is," the woman snapped, bustling to the sink to supervise her spell.

"Hmm, I like him Gred," one of the red-headed twins, George, announced.

"Me too, Forge. Should we induct him into our wondrous band of pranksters?" the other, Fred, asked, grinning.

"My, my, what an _excellent_ idea."

"More like a sinister idea," Ron muttered. Hermione looked at him sternly. "Don't judge him yet, Ron. You don't really know him. And you," she looked pointedly at Harry, "why did you ask what he was doing here? That's something I would expect from _Ron!_ Honestly, you two have no manners."

He sent her a surprised look. "That's a bit out there for you, don't you think? You were just badmouthing 'the dratted, impolite boy from the library' yesterday! Fix your own manners before you insult our—"

"—nonexistent ones," Hermione finished.

Likewise, Harry muttered, "Well excuse me for exercising a bit of caution."

Hermione glanced at him sharply. "There's a fine line between caution and rudeness, Harry. Besides, didn't you hear what Mrs. Wealsey said? He recently went through some hard times."

Ron gaped at her. "Hermione, _why_ are you defending that bloody wanker? Look at all of us! _We're_ going through some tough times but you don't see any of us acting like the rear end of a donkey."

"_Enough!" _Mrs. Weasley cut in. "I don't want to hear your arguing so early in the morning—"

She broke off as a chilling cold wafted into the room and gripped them like invisible hands. Hopelessness and sorrow, helplessness and anger radiated around the room, bouncing off the walls and into their gaping mouths like a racquetball. Their heads were dunked into buckets of icy, murky water. Fear slithered into their hearts, its grip slimy and wet. Was it . . . ? No, it couldn't be. This apartment was safeguarded; they were safe! But the feeling was the same . . .

Ice spread over the plants on the bar; they withered and decayed. Sheets of it spread over the floor, the walls, even the sink where the dishes were still washing themselves. The room turned into a winter wonderland, though much more sinister and black. Was it possible dementors were here? No, no, it couldn't be! _They were safe from dangers outside._ As soon as that collective thought was completed, however, black, withered beings appeared from thin air.

The screams and yells started.

* * *

Nico bolted straight up from his chair in the library as soon as he heard a shrill, little girl-esque scream. (He instantly knew it was Ron.) He jumped up and dashed through the way back to the kitchen, through the antique-cluttered hallway, past empty, dilapidated rooms, and over the umbrella that always seemed to be tipped over. When he reached the kitchen door, he kicked it down and blasted inside.

He met the most interesting sight.

Everyone was huddled behind a knocked over breakfast table in the far corner of the room in the midst of an ice paradise. It was everywhere—on the table, the walls, the ground, even the people themselves! Mrs. Weasley held a trembling hand out from behind the table, wand in hand, yelling a familiar phrase of Latin. But all that sprung from her wand was a faint, white wisp of smoke. He backed up against the wall and analyzed the situation.

He learned long ago not to go into a fight blind.

He turned his attention to the alleged attackers . . . and almost laughed. The familiar gaunt, gangly figures of the soul guardians met his eyes. Tattered black cloaks covered their stick-like limbs, each the color of tar. He glimpsed the holes in the middle of their faces as they floated slowly towards the group of wizards huddling for their lives behind the table.

Come to think of it . . . he thought Harry knew how to handle them. That spell that Mrs. Weasley was chanting . . . Harry had made short work of it when he was being attacked. Why didn't he cast it now? His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

That was a riddle for a later time, though, he decided. Neither party noticed that he had entered the room, even though he had made quite an entrance (kicking down the door and all; that will be a bitch to explain away later). His breath came out visible and he blinked, realizing that he couldn't feel the cold. At least that proved that the three soul guardians in front of him were not Rogues, meaning that his father . . . had . . . sent them . . . _Ah. This is what he meant. _A twinge of sadness travelled along with the thought but he put away his disappointment. He _would _find a way to get home.

He took a silent step forward, but despite the lack of noise, his posture commanded attention. Time froze as wizards and soul guardians alike turned towards his majestic figure. He looked like a prince who had full command and understanding of the situation before him, yet the wizards dreaded his presence. They knew he wasn't a wizard. What if the dementors gave him the Kiss before they could do anything?

The soul guardians registered his presence and felt his aura. They knew who it was. And much to the wizards' surprise, they floated forward . . . and bowed, their "heads" touching the floor.

_"Master Nico," _they breathed in ancient Greek, "_we have orders from Master Hades to bring you back to him_."

Harry, Ron, Hermione and all huddled behind the table were mystified. The language they didn't recognize but . . . it sounded like a human tongue. And who were they speaking to? _Who were they bowing to!_

Nico nodded blankly to the soul guardians and replied, _"My father has revoked those orders. He wishes you back in his domain. He said you will act as messengers from now on."_

Nico felt a wave of relief crash over his body as he spoke the ancient tongue. The language felt familiar and safe.

Ron squeaked, "What? What the bloody hell is going on?"

_"Shut up, Ron!"_ Hermione shushed, heart flapping in her chest like it had wings. Harry just stood there, silent and shocked. Mrs. Weasley's hands shook. Ginny gaped. The twins were saucer-eyed.

The cloaked beings studied Nico for a moment.

Finally, they bowed once more and intoned, "_Yes, Master Nico," _vanishing into thin air.

Nico almost sighed in sadness; he didn't mind their familiar presence in an unfamiliar territory.

He considered them friends. They were familiar. They'd never betray him.

He stiffened. The room was too silent and he felt eyes staring holes into his back. His eyes narrowed and he whipped around.

"_Yes_?" he challenged icily.

The wizards flinched and looked away. He left, ignoring the glances of terrified awe thrown at his back.

He realized that his actions today may lead them to question who or what he was but he couldn't help that. Orders were orders and if he absolutely had to, he could make up a lie about himself.

He walked back to his room.

* * *

"What the _bloody hell _was that?" Ron breathed shakily. Hermione shuddered, remembering Nico's stance. _What was that? Why did they bow to them? What . . . what is he?_

"The dementors _bowed_ to him. And then, then he made them disappear! I thought Dumbledore said he wasn't a wizard so how the hell do you explain _that_?"

Mrs. Weasley didn't even reproach him for language. She looked shaken as she stood up from her post on the floor.

"Mum?" Ginny asked quietly. "Are you alright?" She didn't look all right as she bustled out the kitchen.

"If Nico hadn't been there," Hermione whispered, "what would have happened?"

Silence. They didn't want to admit they didn't know because it would feel like an insult to Mrs. Weasley. After all, she did all she could but . . . _it wasn't enough, _Harry thought bitterly. He could've—_should've—_stepped in but he was afraid that he'd doubly screw up his chances of going back to Hogwarts. _Coward._

"Hold on," Hermione muttered. "Why would the dementors be here?" Ron snorted in disbelief. "'_Why?' _Of all questions, you ask '_why?'_ What about 'how?' How did they get in here? This place is supposed to be safe!"

"I was getting to that," Hermione snapped. "But think about it. Who would have the resources, even if we don't want to believe it, to get passed the Fidelis charm and command dementors?"

Ron gasped. "Bloody hell! You're right, Hermione. It's Nico! Didn't you hear Dumbledore the other day? He said Nico broke into this place but he didn't even know it _and _you just saw his stunt with the bloody dementors! What if he did all of this on purpose? Do you . . . do you think that he—"

"—could be some sort of overlord to them? Yes, actually," Harry frowned.

"_What_?" Hermione hissed. "No! That's not who I meant! I meant—"

Harry growled, interrupting her. "_Of course_! No wonder he could destroy them so easily! He can control them so it'd be bloody easy to tell them to destroy themselves."

"Which means that he could have sent them after you and then 'killed' them to gain his way into this organization and our trust," Ginny spoke with wide eyes.

"No," Hermione insisted desperately, "That doesn't make sense!"

"It makes perfect sense!" Ron yelled. "Especially . . ." He paled. "Especially if he's really working for—"

"Voldemort," Harry ground out furiously. Everyone flinched and the room fell silent once more.

Hermione shook her head, the gears in her mind turning furiously. _No, it's not logical. Nico didn't even have any interest in Harry and . . . didn't they bring Nico back here by force? It just doesn't add up . . ._

Harry was furious. He'd been played _again_. He clenched his fists and stood up. He turned on his heel and stomped towards Nico's room. But a hand flew out and grabbed his right arm, stopping him.

"Harry, wait! Don't you think we should take this to Dumbledore and see what he thinks? What if you're wrong?" Hermione pleaded, desperately trying to convince him. _Reason, _she thought_, see reason! _She sent a searching glance all around but the only ones who seemed unsure were the twins.

Harry hesitated, his anger draining. Then he remembered how Dumbledore had virtually ignored him all summer. His rage climbed up a bar.

"It's not like he cares; he didn't tell me anything so why should I tell him about this? Tell me, Hermione. I can take care of this by myself. It happened to _me_, after all."

He took another step forward, shrugging off Hermione's hand. He heard nothing behind him and quickened his pace. He was sick and tired of people toying with him, _using_ him.

He kicked open Nico's door, foregoing the fact that he didn't even have a confrontation plan. He just _had_ to vent out his anger on someone. But before he could another step, something sharp slid gently against his neck. He froze as it pressed deeper, his mind reeling in shock.

"Don't take another step."


	4. You Know What They Say about Assumptions

The minute Nico heard his door creaking open he bounded out of bed, calling forth his sword.

The smooth hilt slid into his outstretched hand just as he froze at the edge of the door case. He breathed sparsely, adrenaline dancing through his veins. Apprehension thudded through him, playing him like a guitar, but an inkling of excitement persisted.

His sword mirrored the progress of the door, rising up inch by inch. As soon as the shadowy outline of a person stepped into his room, he lashed out, grabbing the intruder's shoulder.

His sword pressed against the thin neck of the frozen invader. He faintly recalled growling out a warning, too caught up in the blind fury that someone had trespassed into his room.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and shoved all of the red, scalding anger into the recesses of his mind. He was well aware that he shouldn't make this situation worse than it already was. Anger didn't get anyone anywhere; it was a lesson he'd learned the hard way. He ushered the person forward into his room and gently nudged the door shut behind them.

_Besides . . . it's not my room . . . per se. _

He led the person to the center of the room, pushing harshly with the palm of his empty hand. Sword creeping up the trespasser's neck, Nico demanded, "What are _you_ doing in here?"

It was always a bad idea to let the intruder in on the fact that their identity was unknown. It gave the impression that their captor was still vulnerable, no matter who had the upper hand. It gave leverage that Nico didn't like to hand out.

Nico's grip on his sword slackened a little once he felt the infiltrator's pulse race faster and faster—a side effect of human skin against Stygian Iron. He didn't want to kill them before justice was served.

He did have morals.

(No matter how dark or evil anyone thought him to be. _Fucktards._)

"You tricked me. You _used_ me. And I can't believe I _fell _for it!"

It was Harry. Nico almost flinched.

_Wha . . .? _He didn't do anything. Why was he being accused? _He didn't do anything. _He dropped his sword. It went back to the shadows.

_What the fuck is he talking about?_

A black hole formed in the pit of his stomach. The anger imprisoned in the recesses of his mind stirred.

(_A victim . . . _He was a victim.)

"Why the _hell_ would I do that? I don't even know you."

Harry recoiled at the pain in Nico's voice. It sounded genuine but how was he supposed to know the truth anymore? Small gestures, even the most innocent and honest ones, had been revealed as selfish ever since Voldemort's rebirth.

He didn't know what to believe anymore. One part of him yearned to trust his friends and family, but another was slightly suspicious that they hadn't divulged one scrap of information to him during the summer.

_Why am I being kept in the dark? Ron, Hermione, _everyone_ knows what is going on but me and it _deals_ with me! What the bloody hell do they think I am? A tool they can use whenever they feel like it?_

He understood that he didn't need to know everything, but it would have been a _treasure_ to him if Ron or Hermione (_or even Dumbledore)_ had told him what was happening in the Wizarding World. _It was supposed to be his home. _He clenched his fists.

"_You_ sent them," he sneered; he wasn't afraid. He wasn't weak. _He couldn't be._ But, one part of his mind whispered, maybe that's why they won't let you join the order. They let Nico join after all even though he's manipulating them. It's strength they want, not weakness.

"You sent the dementors after me in that alley and _pretended_ to help me. You 'saved' me from them to gain our trust and then you'd report back to your _Master_."

Nico flinched, eyes wide. How did he know? How did some goddamn wizard in the _past_ know he was . . . he was a . . . traitor? Was he wearing a big, green, neon sign that announced it for all to see but him? Was it his appearance? His attitude? He wanted to rip his hair out. _Why can't I get rid of this taint?_ Wild eyes stared into the obsidian darkness. He traced a face. It was a pretty face, heart-shaped and deceptively innocent. Dark silky waves toppled over it. Warm, black eyes glinted with madness . . . or genius. She smiled at him.

It was Bianca. He felt like a giant had kicked him in the ribs.

"No . . .," Nico whispered. "I'm not a traitor." _I'm not . . . I didn't betray . . . anyone. Or Bianca. _

It was a self-undertaken covert operation. He was supposed to spy on Kronos and trick him into thinking he was loyal because he thought the titan would bring Bianca back. He knew—_he really did; he did!—_that Kronos' promise was a lie. He wasn't a traitor. He wasn't a goddamn traitor.

He sacrificed everything for them. _Bianca_ sacrificed everything for them. And she died trying. She fought their fight, she bought their cause and in return she lost her life.

For all that he did, they treated him like a traitor. Like he was the dirt under their shoe. Like he was darkness of their day. Red, hot malevolence swirled in the back of his mind, attacking the cage in which it was incarcerated.

"Then how do you explain your conversation with the dementors? Probably the very same dementors that attacked me and nearly got me expelled from the _only home_ I've ever known!"

Harry shoved Nico off of him. The boy stumbled a step or two backwards. Nico looked up and Harry's resolve shriveled as glowing orbs of Satan judged him from afar, shaking him to the core.

"You sick bastard," Nico snarled. "I didn't trick or use or do _anything _to you but help you. If I was a damn spy why didn't I let the soul guardians kill you? Better yet, why the fucking hell would I even talk to them while _you _were there? Don't you ever _think?_"

"Of course I think! How else did I discover you for what you are? A bloody _traitor_."

Nico took a deep breath. He tried to calm down. He really did. But this was too far. He clamped his jaw, his eyes hardening. Something inside him snapped. His own resentment shook off its shackles and emerged from its cage.

His fist flew before he even realized it, impacting with cold, soft flesh. There was an anguished cry.

"What the—so now that I know, you're going to kill me? And you call _me_ the sick bastard when _you're_ the sick bastard, bastard!"

Another punch. Another grunt. Another insult. Nico shook with fury.

"Shut. Up. You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've been through."

Harry cradled his face, backing up. "I don't know what _you've_ been through? You don't know what _I've _been through! Wait, you probably do since Voldemort probably tells his dog _something—_"

He ducked as Nico threw another punch.

"What? No magic? Your master would be ashamed that you're using muggle methods," Harry spat, diving to the left.

(Calm—down—)

Nico threw a flurry of punches and kicks, dancing around Harry as he attempted to throw up a meager defense. It didn't work. Nico shoved him against the wall, black orbs glowing with anger. He saw red and only red.

"Listen up," he growled through clenched teeth. "I would be cleaning your clock right now if I could. But I made an agreement to help your damn, ungrateful ass."

_(And I won't renege another promise.)_

Harry tried to squirm out of his grip, clutching his fists. _So weak!_ He screamed at himself. He felt like he was an ant under a giant's shoe. He tried to throw a punch but Nico caught it and slammed his arms high above him against the wall. He winced at the tingling impact.

"If you had _actually_ thought to think for a moment, you would have realized that I didn't want to be here before I made an agreement with your beloved _Gandalf_. You would have remembered that I escaped when your people first held me, only to be brought back here _by_ them. And lastly, I was questioned under your damn _truth potion_ to which I admitted I _wasn't_ a wizard! Why the Hades would your Voldemort team up with a non-wizard when he_ hates _non-wizards_?_"

Harry's eyes widened. That was true . . . Hermione had told them that, both he and Ron . . . Nico's black orbs looked at him. A horrible, terrible feeling erupted within Harry. _What if I _am _wrong? _Another part of him whispered, What if you are right? Hermione was against it . . . and he generally trusted her judgment because she was one of the few wizards who employed logic—_oh. _

Harry felt sick. He'd just alienated another ally. What the bloody hell was _wrong _with him? Why didn't he think before he threw a temper tantrum? _Why didn't he listen to Hermione? _Guilt welled up in his chest. He swallowed and looked down. He was too embarrassed to look at Nico.

"Right . . . Sorry, mate. It's just with Voldemort rising and this war and—"

"Don't me call 'mate.'" Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Friends don't call each other traitors." Harry flinched, ashamed. "Look," he started, "I'm sorry; I was wrong. It's just this war is getting to me . . .," he murmured.

Nico backed off, releasing Harry's arms.

"War gets to everyone. Especially in clutch time," Nico muttered, staring absently at the ground. He was still pissed off, but he was always pissed off. He snorted sardonically. Nothing new.

Harry peered at him, warily. "You mean you've been in a . . . in a war?" He wracked his brains, trying to think of a current muggle war. He couldn't think of one. _Although . . . is Nico really a muggle? He did command dementors after all._ The suspicion surrounding that hadn't really been lifted. Harry would have asked but . . . it didn't feel right. Not after all of the accusations he'd thrown in Nico's face. _Like what Fudge is doing to me._

"Yes," Nico replied abruptly, features bare. "I've gone down your path before. And suffice to say, I don't want to go down it again."

Harry didn't know why but his anger sparked at that statement. It almost felt as if Nico was _belittling _him.

"Then you know what it's like to have so many people counting on that you just want to give up? To be constantly judged or _monitored_?"

Nico narrowed his eyes at the tone.

Harry just stared at the dark space he assumed Nico to be standing in. _You didn't have to face Voldemort though. Your family wasn't stolen from you before you even had a chance to know them, was it? You're not being publicly ridiculed by the world you thought was your only home, _did you_?_

"No, you don't. You can't possible know," he whispered, choking back angry tears.

Nico stared at the outline of Harry's figure. He clamped his jaw, his eyes hardening.

(Stay—calm—)

"Yes I damn well do. I lost my _sister_ to that war and I didn't even get to tell her goodbye before she was killed! So don't you _dare_ tell me that I don't know, because I do—better than you ever will."

(_Life has ruined me. Don__'__t let it ruin you_.)

Nico turned away. Livid tears streamed down his eyes even as he tried to wipe them off.

His chest twisted and collapsed in on itself, warping and twisting. It was painstaking. . . _Bianca, why? Why did you have to die? You left me all alone._

"_It__'__ll get better, man, just takes time.__"__ Percy._

_(Liar. He doesn__'__t care. He let Bianca die. He never cared!)_

_Annabeth. __"__Toughen up. Thinking on it will get you nowhere.__"_

_(You don__'__t care either. Why keep up the pretenses?)_

_So many more . . . _

Nico wished Bianca was alive. He needed her. His chest constricted. He tried to hold in his tears.

(He tried to breathe freely for once. He failed.)

Even the toughest of the tough break down at some point and when that happened, Nico longed for the loving arms of his family. His sister.

That would never be.

Harry was silent. _He lost his sister . . . ?_

Was he so selfish that he wanted to be the only one that had to suffer? He cringed. Did he take pride in his hardships and losses? Harry felt sick. He looked up from the shadowed floor and towards Nico. The teen had probably suffered worse than Harry and the wizard couldn't believe he'd ignored Nico's attempts to relate.

"I'm sorry," Harry told the other boy, thinking of nothing else to say.

He knew that no one wanted to hear those words; no one wanted to be pitied. But there was nothing else to say.

Nico didn't respond immediately, stunned at the immediate acceptance. He tried to shrug it off but it triggered something . . . A memory.

He remembered Bianca telling him something. He was ten or eleven years old and they were still in the Lotus Hotel. Some guy had just pushed him off of a game he'd loved playing and Nico had tried to punch him . . . Bianca had stopped him.

"_Don't do it, Nico. There's some good in everyone, even the evilest person in the world. He probably had a reason for doing what he did. Maybe. Besides, don't you want to be the bigger person?"_

His anger receded a little.

"Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault."

_(It was mine. I was too weak. Too young. Too __naïve__.)_

He didn't want to think about this anymore.

Silence once again. Harry shuffled nervously in his spot before asking.

"Er—so did you win your . . . war?"

Nico froze, his mind reeling at the amount of information that he'd divulged about himself. He scowled.

_Oh well, what's done is done._

"At the price of many lives."

_Luke. Silena. Beckendorf. Ethan Nakamura—and so many more._

Nico grew silent once more. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. He was . . . tired.

Harry noticed Nico's apt silence and struggled to respect it, despite itching to know more.

He found himself wishing to compare Nico's struggles to his own, no matter how hard he tried to bat the selfish thought away.

"Er—"

Harry didn't have a chance to say anything. The door sprung open, slamming against the wall, letting light flood the previously dark room. It sent a jolt through both boys. Nico squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. He liked the darkness better.

A bunch of wizards—Order members—rushed in faster than the eye could follow, all pointing their wands at Nico, all throwing suspicious glares toward him.

"Harry, what—"

The speaker—_Hermione?—_gasped. Nico's eyes widened. _Oh shit. His face._

Nico's gaze turned towards the wizards. They all circled around him, with their wands at the ready. They glowered at him and Nico reciprocated the look. He was not in the mood for this.

"Wait! It's not what you think it is—"

"It's exactly what we think it is. Just look at your bruises, Potter," Mad-eye grunted, glaring at Nico.

Nico frowned as Moody hobbled closer. The wizard was almost as paranoid as his father and Nico knew he would not get out of this situation unscathed. The man would likely try the truth potion on him again and secrets might become unwillingly exposed.

If that old man was somewhere within sight, maybe he'd have a chance. But his face was absent from the crowd of wizards.

Nico flipped over the wizards and dodged around Moody, all the while keeping one step ahead of their magic spells. He disappeared around the corner of the hall and shadow travelled back to that alley in London. He'd have to find a way to complete his job another way.

(Another promise broken. . .)

* * *

The very minute Nico disappeared from Twelve Grimmauld Place, Albus Dumbledore arrived at the scene of the crime, wondering what had called him away from his office.

He heard much clamor coming from a room on the right side of the hall. He quickly walked the distance and froze when he realized whose room he was about to step into.

Nico di Angelo.

A feeling of dread welled up within him. What had happened? He cautiously strode inside the room to find fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix all in an uproar with Harry—a bruised Harry;_ curious—_in the center of it.

Nico was nowhere to be found. The dread poked Albus like a hot metal rod. After realizing that no one had noticed his arrival—not even Alastor—Albus raised his voice.

"All of you! Quiet down, please!"

The chatter died down very quickly to Albus' satisfaction, but the amount of angry or depressed faces did not sooth his nerves one bit.

"Now, would someone care to explain what happened?"

The wizards shuffled slightly, looking uneasy and sheepish. Harry was glaring at the ground and Hermione glanced periodically between him and the Boy-Who-Lived. Ron looked flabbergasted.

"Alastor?" he prodded, looking at the ex-Auror.

His expression was grave, but he nodded.

"Nico di Angelo left."

Frowning, Albus inquired, "How did this happen?"

Already, he could sense a misunderstanding and a huge dent in his plans. He sighed.

This was going to be a long year.


	5. Reality Hurts

Nico stumbled against the brick wall, breathless. The shadows receded to the black corners of the building, crawling backwards like a flurry of spiders. His eyes stared at the dark wall, glazed and out of focus. He closed them, taking a deep breath. Sweat beaded beneath his palms, pooling on the wall. He watched disinterestedly as a drop turned in a stream. He shook his head and wiped his palms on his shirt. _Where am I?_

Eyes looked around, squinting. The place looked familiar but . . . Dark orbs widened and the cloud of confusion cleared. This . . . this was where he lived (or perhaps "stayed" would be the better term) before his traipse to England. He suddenly felt lighter, as if he was floating. _Maybe . . . maybe I'm back home. Maybe Hades found a way to bring me back home after all. _Then he dropped down hard back to earth. A shiver went down his back and he scowled, furiously shaking his head.

_Damn it. You know what happens when you get your hopes up._

A cursory glance around the space confirmed it. The warehouse was recently constructed and still in use. The walls, dilapidated from years of ignorance in the present, looked newly refurbished in the past. Even in the dark, the room had a distinct color and cheer—unlike the muted puke that enveloped the area when he occupied it. Stacked boxes of all sizes huddled around the walls behind him, sleeping soundly.

A thought struck him: America and England have a time difference. It was early morning here.

A crushing weight descended upon his chest. He felt strangely suffocated within the spacious area. He drew another shuddering breath. Maybe he was hungry. Or maybe he needed to get out of here. There was nothing here for him after all. He staggered to the door and wrenched it open. Darkness welcomed him, possessively hugging everything in its path.

It was pulling him in, luring him into the same despairing monotony. His hands shook. He clenched them by his sides, stashing them in his pockets. He walked out, head bowled over, trying not look into Darkness' tempting gaze. He failed.

A row of other warehouses stood empty, lifeless, in the night. The trees on either side didn't even stir. Nico felt like he was in a nightmarish drawing—the person standing alone under a flickering lamppost, unaware of his impending death.

He shadow travelled to the nearest town.

* * *

It was a ghost town. Street lights flickered dimly as shadows danced in and over houses. The houses themselves were dreary and depressing. No motion characterized the street—not even the wind dipped in for a visit. Nico felt like he was in the Underworld. Even down there, though, at least there was movement.

He walked on, head down, to a dark restaurant a few miles in front. It looked abandoned to him, as if the workers were chased off by an unsanitary health inspection. Mold lined the walls and dust laid over it like a transparent overcoat. Inside, the tables were dulled and scratched, covered with lengthy spider webs elongating from one wall to another. He wondered if it was close to Halloween. He couldn't remember the date since he'd landed in the past.

The crooked sign dangling dangerously over his head read, "Casino Cuisine." He grimaced, memories of sickly sweet candy flashing through his eyes. Casino food . . . He couldn't remember the food in the Lotus Hotel being all that great, but that was a fuzzy memory within his repertoire. He wasn't—

His eyes widened. A surge of hope, so powerful, so _wanted—needed like his own breath—_resonated through his bones. He shook a little on his feet. What if—? _Please, please, please—!_

It was 1995. He was still in the Lotus Hotel. Bianca was still in the Lotus Hotel. She was still alive.

_Alive. Bianca—was—alive._

He could—he could—

His heart threw itself at his ribcage, pounding mercilessly fast. He went rigid, even more so than the ghost town he stood in. _Bianca . . . _As if he suddenly remembered how to move, he dashed, almost stiffly, at the building, calling the shadows to lead him to the Lotus Hotel. He could save her, just like he'd promised. He could make up for Percy's mistake. And this would never happen. Bianca wouldn't be dead. He wouldn't be dead to demigods. And . . . everything. Everything would change.

_For the better._

* * *

There it was.

The Lotus Hotel.

It blinked persuasively at Nico, almost like a seductress eyeing her next victim. The neon flower surrounding the glistening chrome doors almost hurt his eyes as lights flashed on and off in a pattern, truly making it eye-popping within the dead of night.

A lingering doubt proposed the question, _What if everyone's asleep? It's night after all._

Nico ignored it.

Time passed by so slowly that no one probably knew it was night. But . . . if everyone was sleeping . . . he could wait. A tingling feeling ignited his nerves as he briskly walked forward, eyes roving over the doors. He recalled that they had always been open . . . during the day at least. Perhaps they closed during the night to prevent their "guests" from realizing the passage of time. There was no doorman either. His hand snaked around the silver handles glinting under moonlight and gently pulled them open.

He had to stop himself from shaking. He didn't know why he shook—maybe it was from excitement, or maybe it was from fear of being disappointed. He scrapped the thought. _Positive thoughts. She has to be here. _

(She _had_ to.)

He carefully stepped inside, examining the heart of the hotel. He was right; it might as well have been day outside because it certainly was within the hotel. People milled around the place, skipping between games. Clusters of people, girls and boys—young mostly but there were a few adults—surrounded a variety of games. Shouts of success became the music of the lobby. Waitresses dished out snacks and drinks by the dozens, smiling brighter than the neon flower outside. Nico tentatively stepped forward, feeling a little out of place. It was so carefree here.

His chest ached. He ignored it, walking forward, looking for, well, himself.

Or Bianca.

He had stuck close to her when he was here.

No one approached him which, while he found odd, he blamed on the games. They had a certain hypnotic quality designed to lure people in and imprison them, unaware, within the Hotel. He sent a glance over a sleek machine, open, beckoning . . . Nico fought the allure and kept looking. There was a specific haunt of his, a game he played over and over again back when he was here.

It was near a corner, he couldn't remember which but he knew it was near a bend in the wall . . _._ He froze.

He couldn't move. He saw himself, greedily playing the machine without a care in the world.

_Damn_, _I was short . . . _He thought idly, tilting his head to the side. The shaking slowly morphed into constant shivering as he took another step, distinctly aware of the heat of the room, the obnoxious noise level, the sweat beading on his brow. He felt almost . . . nauseous. His stomach swirled. His younger self didn't even notice his approach, filling Nico with a sense of trepidation.

_Where's Bianca?_

He paused and turned, focusing his gaze on the area behind his younger counterpart who—

His heart stopped. The world dulled. Color was wringed from every corner, every crook, except for the splash of beautiful, dark brown silk swaying gently underneath a floppy green hat. His nausea increased, his stomach roared, butterflies slamming against the insides, begging for a way out—

His shivering shifted into outright trembling and a sense of euphoria, like he'd never experienced before, crashed over him like a tsunami overtaking the shore of a tiny beach. He felt dazed, as if he was in a trance, asleep. The world was a grainy backdrop to beauty he had only seen in his memories.

_Bianca. . . _

Then he realized it wasn't a memory.

He took a step forward, stumbling a little, until he was engaged in an all-out run.

"Bianca!" he called, a feeling of clouded desperation swiveling around him like a gust of wind.

She whipped her head around and Nico caught a glimpse of her face—confused black eyes, so much like his, like their father's, peered out into the crowd, searching. Nico locked eyes with that gaze and for moment she was looking right at him—_right at him!—_

Then that moment vanished. She looked away. Nico's radiant smile dampened a little but he continued toward her, hoping, praising the gods—_he was right! She was here!_

He was a foot away, just behind her. He was shocked—and pleased—to realize he was taller than her—her head came up to his shoulders. His arm shook terribly and he tried to steady it. _Why am I shaking? I'm not cold!_ Just the opposite.

_She's right here! Bianca . . ._

He reached out, his hand an inch away, a half-inch, a centimeter—_he touched her. He touched her back! _and then_—_

His hand went straight through.

_No . . ._

He stared, eyes wide, as his arm turned transparent, like a ghost. His arm hovered for a moment, sticking out of Bianca's back like a dagger—

He yanked it back, shuddering at how cold it felt, like his arm, his body was enclosed in ice. His stomach dropped, his head pounded, and he reached out again, with his other arm, so close, he could _see_ his hand landing on her shoulder in his mind's eye—

It passed through, too. Bianca walked forward, completely unaware of his presence—_but_ _he was right behind her—he had made it this far!_

Nico watched her go, and following her, he entwined his leg with hers.

It went right through.

He tried his elbow.

It went right through.

He tried his knee.

It went right through.

He tried his head, his shoulder, his—

_They all went right through._

Panting heavily, but not from exhaustion, he shouted, "Bianca! Bianca, it's me, Nico! Please . . ."

She didn't turn around. She kept going, as if she didn't hear him. Nico stared, his smile forgotten. His lips hung on his face as if only by a string, his eyes painted the blackest of blacks. The hot room turned cold, chilly against his skin.

He clenched his fists.

(_It's not fair.)_

He looked down at himself, startled by how transparent he appeared. It was as if he held a loose three-dimensional body with no color or form. Only the outer contours of his body proved he was there.

(_It's not fair!_)

He trudged up to the wall, eyes glazed over as he seemingly traced the flower design. He scowled; crimson hot rage, _burning and blistering_, his own blood curdling and spitting. He clenched his fists tighter, nails digging painfully into his skin.

(_It's. Not. Fair.)_

His fist flew through the air like a torpedo on its way to enemy territory—fast, furious, deadly—

It went right through.

. . . He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and punched again.

* * *

"Look . . . Ron, Hermione . . . I'm sorry for being such an arse lately. It's just, I dunno . . . none of this seems fair. You two and, hell, everyone else gets here before I do. I'm the last one here and yet I'm the only one who's seen the return of Voldemort! It just doesn't seem _right, _you know?" Harry gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the sizzling heat striking against his barrier of tranquility.

_Stay calm. For them. _

He wanted to punch something terribly.

_Not them . . . it's not their fault._

"We know," Hermione whispered quietly. Harry almost jumped. "Like we told you earlier, we wanted to tell you everything, but—"

"—Dumbledore wouldn't allow it. I know." He took a deep breath and rubbed he temples. "Why?" he asked. "Why doesn't he want me to know? Haven't I done enough to be considered capable? Who saved the Philosopher's Stone in his_ first year_? I did! Who stopped teenage Voldemort in his second year? I did! Who—you see, don't you? I've done enough to be—I've got the right to know!"

He clenched his fists. Hermione's gaze was sad. Ron stared blankly at the wall. "Exactly, Harry. We know! We completely agree with you. But . . . ultimately it's Dumbledore's decision. Maybe he thinks you're not ready. Or maybe he wants to give you some semblance of a childhood—"

"I'm _more_ than ready!" Harry snarled. "And I never had a childhood, anyway! I—" He stopped as Hermione flinched at his tone.

He looked away. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to snap at you. You . . . you're not the problem. Sorry, Hermione, Ron. . . If I go off on a rampage again, just hit me or something and I'll stop." A vague outline of a smile formed on Hermione's face.

"Okay," she said.

Ron stood up, grinning, and said, "Don't mind if I do," flexing his arm. The corner of Harry's mouth inched up.

"Not now, though, mate. I've already been banged up enough! Though I probably deserved it . . ." he trailed off. The air grew somber and Harry's half-smile fell.

Nico had left him a nasty little reminder on his face and well, his body really. Harry wouldn't stop with the mental barrage and Nico returned the favor—he didn't stop with the physical barrage. Hermione winced, looking at his injuries.

"Yeah," Ron muttered, "Those look bloody painful."

Harry snorted.

He could feel a ghost throbbing in the back of his mind, pulsing from his numbed injuries. Mrs. Weasley had tried to heal them but Harry had refused. He didn't know why but it was sort of satisfying . . . like a battle wound. It sort of proved he wasn't a child—that he could take the pain and whatever the Order was hiding from him. And he'd boycott the healing of his injuries until they did. Honestly, though, he had his doubts that it would work.

"What happened in there, Harry? After you barged into his room—_without cause_," Hermione added, levelling him with an admonishing stare; Harry averted his gaze, "Fred and George came back with Mrs. Weasley and a couple of others. A boggart held them up, apparently, which was why they couldn't get here sooner. This house is a death trap, honestly," she muttered. "You'd think we'd have a safer _safe house._ But anyway, we caught them up on the events, along with your theory, and well, that's when they crashed into the room."

Harry sighed. "Well once I _'barged'_ in there, I accused Nico of working for Voldemort. He . . . he didn't like that so we kind of got into an argument and I ended up losing it both physically and verbally. Nico's not working for Voldemort but . . . I think he's—I dunno the right word but 'damaged' fits."

Harry looked them both in the eyes. "He's been in a war. He said he won but . . . he lost his sister and friends."

He paused. Ron looked shocked. Hermione frowned, muttering, "That's why he's so . . ."

She didn't finish the sentence. Neither Ron nor Harry asked her to.

"What muggle war's gone on lately? I mean there are a lot of suspicious things about him but how could we miss an entire war? Wizards aren't that ignorant . . . are we? And we only have this war going on but it hasn't really turned into a "_war" _war yet."

Hermione pursed her lips, thoughtful. "There are some wars going on but not major and certainly not in America—or at least those involving kids or civilians or . . . I would say he might be European—his name classifies him as Italian at least—but he said he was from America under Veritiserum. So that wouldn't work. You're right, Harry . . . very suspicious. You think he could have been lying?"

Remembering the look in the Nico's eyes . . . Harry shuddered. "No, no chance. He was telling the truth."

"_That's _what you think is suspicious about him?" Ron exclaimed incredulously. "Don't you remember the dementor stunt? He talked with them in another_ language_—and then he banished them. I mean, I get that anyone trying to infiltrate the Order would not do that in front of us, so he couldn't be working for You-Know-Who, but still! That screams suspicious to me!"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah. Certainly tells us he isn't an ordinary squib or whatever he is."

"That language he was speaking in . . . it sounded like Greek but not quite . . . maybe . . . ancient Greek or a similar language? Maybe even a lost one?"

"Or a Dark one," Ron muttered, "How do you even know it was a human language? It could've been Dementoreese or Darkish."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "If such languages existed, I doubt they'd be called that. I know because Nico could speak it—_and_, and," stressing the word at Ron's pointed look, "those were human sounds. I know it sounds stereotypical but I think non-human languages would include sounds that we couldn't make. And besides, I've never heard dementors speak, have you? I thought they communicated telepathically or by some other means."

Harry nodded. "I'm going to have to agree with Hermione on this one, Ron."

Ron shrugged, "Whatever. But hear me out on this: Dementors are dark creatures, right? And they attacked Harry because they probably line up with You-Know-Who. So why can Nico control them and talk to them? You saw they bowed to him, didn't you? He _must_ be their overlord!"

Harry frowned. "Are you trying to say Nico's not human, Ron?"

"Well . . . it'd fit, wouldn't it?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know about that but he's certainly not a wizard or a muggle. We can speculate all we want but unless we ask him or research, we won't know for sure."

Harry inched back to Ron's position on the bed. "Yeah . . . you do that Hermione. We're just going to keep speculating."

Hermione shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said as she made to stand up. "I'm going to see if there's anything in the Black library."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sat in a chair in the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix with a splitting headache. The explanation had been long and grueling as the Order members tried to shirk the blame.

"Should we search for the boy, Albus?" Alastor asked cautiously.

Albus shook his head.

"No. I'm afraid that would only rile him up as it was our fault for this untimely conflict."

Looking around, he was met with guilt-trodden stares.

Albus continued. "I have no reason to believe the boy has any relation with Voldemort—"

Multiple members flinched at the name.

"—or his followers. There is no need for anything drastic. He was meant to be a fellow member until . . . prejudice, amongst our own ranks, chased him away."

He levelled a heavy glance at Alastor, who met it.

"What would you have done then, Albus, had you come into contact with the information that our _newest member_ had a relationship—a servant-master relationship—with dementors?"

Blue orbs bore down into Alastor's heterochromatic eyes. "I would have asked."

Alastor snorted. "And he would have lied. He'd have played you for a fool!" Albus cocked his head calmly, "He would?" His gaze hardened, like ice freezing inside an opaque container, invisible to all but the one set of eyes looking from the top. "Is speculation a probable cause to chase a potential ally off?"

Alastor's eyes gleamed, his mouth curved downward. "It is if it's not just 'speculation.' That boy spoke to the dementors and commanded them from what Potter and his crew said. That's not speculation. That's fact. You saw Molly's memory! We need to find out what it was—which is why we should look and bring the boy back. What if our enemy found him—if he wasn't with him in the _first _place?"

Albus' expression remained unchanged. "Voldemort has no knowledge of his existence, nor do I believe Mr. di Angelo would agree to side with him. He had no previous knowledge of our world. We are more than likely the only wizards in this entire community that know of his existence, Alastor. Mr. di Angelo does not seem the type to jump sides. When I spoke to him, he wanted nothing more than to leave. "

Another voice entered the discussion, deep and nasally. "Albus, while that may be true, perhaps I should ask around the Dark Lord's circle. Rumors may be circulating about a dementor overlord. We need to know what this boy is so that we will be prepared if he _does_ pose a threat to us in the future. I will be discreet, of course."

Albus's gaze turned to Snape, considering. Alastor scoffed. "Knowledge isn't enough. We can ensure he won't be a threat if we find him, bring him back, and keep him under watch."

"That would be antagonizing him," Minerva interjected, sending a grave look at Alastor. "Certainly if he did not like us already, he would abhor us then! If he turns out to be powerful, shouldn't it be better not to have anything to do with him? Especially if he wanted nothing to do with our affairs in the first place."

"What would happen if we did just that and he got into You-Know-Who's hands? What then?"

"Then Severus would inform us of any information—"

"Nonsense! It's not even a given that Snape would have _access _to that information."

"And isn't the entire point to keep him from enemy hands? Merlin only knows what You-Know-Who would do if he found a boy with the power to control dementors more efficiently than he ever could! It would be an absolute nightmare. We need to get to the boy before _he _does—"

"But how would we even find him—?"

"Well we found him before didn't we?"

"That was only through luck! The Guard was sent to pick up Potter and bring him here when they found the lad literally on Potter's doorstep—"

"Then perhaps we could be that lucky again—"

"Impossible. Relying solely on _luck _is madness!"

"But—"

Albus sighed. This, perhaps, was democracy's greatest weakness—the diversity of opinions destined to clash. He brought his hand up to his throat and muttered the _Sonorous_ spell.

"_Everyone, please_!" he announced, halting all conversation quite effectively. If they did not do so under the magnitude of his voice, they did so under his piercing blue gaze.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, reversing the spell. "Arguing over this matter will lead us nowhere. Let us compromise." He paused, expecting to hear objection. There was none._ So far._

"Now, I understand that there is a desire to leave Mr. di Angelo alone and another to capture and confine him within our Headquarters. Instead, I propose that Severus monitor Voldemort's movements and if he should find the boy, only then will we act. In the meantime, we will do what we can to prepare ourselves for a potential conflict involving Mr. di Angelo. Agreed?"

"What would be this 'preparation,' Albus?" Snape drawled. "Are you suggesting delegating a reconnaissance mission to select members, focused on gathering information on this boy?"

Albus applauded Severus; it was an excellent idea that even Alastor could not reject. He nodded. "Indeed. This group would assist Severus' attempts to locate the boy so that we are not solely relying on him. Are there any objections?"

A few questions arose to his proposal as well as a few amendments, mostly for safety reasons. It was nothing too drastic. Finally, when they all agreed on a course of action half an hour later (although the majority vote was close; very close), the meeting was adjourned. Alastor left with a sour expression; Albus feared that he would act out of bounds but unfortunately, he could not monitor the former auror. Perhaps he could entrust him with a few demanding tasks to divert his attention? As underhanded as it was, it was necessary. Perhaps he could send Alastor on the recruiting mission with Hagrid and Madame Maxine . . . Not to the giants, however. He could not imagine that Alastor would be courteous to them. However, should Tom's underlings arrive, he could provide suitable backup. He could perhaps even chase them away with the right tactics.

Albus conversed shortly with a few of the older members on his way out, cementing their views in correlation to his.

He held back a sigh, intent on hiding his exhaustion. While he did not like these turn of events, this was the best decision he could make. Maybe with luck the boy would come back. He had made a promise to stay at Hogwarts as a guest but now, Albus was questioning the validity of the promise.

He was tied up with Harry's hearing as well. This would have to wait, unfortunately.

* * *

Nico took shuddering breaths as he walked through the streets of London. He felt sick.

_Why the fuck did I _fall _for that! I should have known. _

He had just left the Lotus Hotel.

_I'll never see her alive again._

Why couldn't he just _accept_ that? Why did he have to make himself suffer?

(Why was he sent back without the ability to make amends? _Why?_)

He didn't care if it led to a paradox in the flow of time or if he would cease to exist. With Bianca alive . . . if she knew what her choices would cause in the future . . . everything would have been different.

He bent over to wretch in the nearest trashcan.

He just wanted to go home. Wherever home was. Even if home meant death. He'd see Bianca again, wouldn't he? He snorted, scowling.

_Stop thinking about her!_

But he couldn't. He couldn't stop thinking about where he had gone wrong. Her death had definitely been the catalyst. He hadn't been ready to lose his sister so early in his life. He'd already lost his mother, he didn't know his father (at least as a proper loving father)—he didn't have anyone. The one friend he thought he had led Bianca to her death . . . even if he didn't mean to.

(He knew Percy didn't mean to! He had forgiven him . . . and yet he hadn't . . .)

It was enough to break him. He'd set out, trying to amass enough power to bring her back to life, even if she didn't want him to. He'd gone to Minas first and then his father and then Kro—

_No. It was a covert operation!—_

—nos. He sucked in a breath and shook his head. _Stop. Thinking._

He walked into an alley—deserted and filled with reeking trash, his fists clenched—and raised a shaking hand. A wall of shadows encompassed the alley, preventing anyone outside from seeing what he was about to do. Thorns flowed through his veins, prickling his senses, enraging him. He closed his eyes, imagined a long, keen point followed by a cone shaped body, smooth and slender and—

He struck the wall and watched as it collapsed in on itself, a mountain of fine dust scattered in the air as a symphony of fists and kicks howled for blood and vengeance.

* * *

The alley was gone, uprooted even. Solid stakes jutted out from the ground, followed by unending trenches so deep that it was completely black. The walls had simply vanished into thin air, revealing the insides of now vacant office buildings, painted with dust and dirt. He spotted the British police swarming the scene, baffled and befuddled. Was it an earthquake? they asked; was it a freak accident?

Nico smiled bitterly. They would never guess it was one boy's temper tantrum. A deep feeling of shame clouded his thoughts.

_You're too old for this . . . _He shook his head and backed into one of the buildings in secret, calling to the shadows. He was tired. He wanted something to eat.

He reappeared in a diner on the opposite side of town. He snuck into the kitchen, jumping from shadow to shadow, surrounding himself in darkness as he snatched a loaf of bread and some sliced meat sitting on the counter. He didn't wait to hear the aftermath of the missing food, immediately shadow-traveling to the alleyway between two restaurants a few blocks down. He wolfed down the food as if it were only a means to survive.

It was tasteless.

He could feel it slithering down his throat. He almost choked envisioning a snake squirming in slime. He briefly closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall. He could imagine his brain humming with thoughts, ensconced in utter blackness, unable to clear it out—

He opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. He felt hollow and weak; all he wanted to do was sleep.

Eat, sleep, and poop.

He wished he was a dog.

He wished he couldn't experience feelings.

He shook his head, erasing his dark thoughts. This was why he didn't want to go on any quest or fall into a stupid portal. He didn't want any more pain; he just wanted to be left alone. So what if he was left to rot? Who cared anyway? Certainly not his father. Who ignored him for years until now? Ding, ding, ding! Hades, Lord of the Underworld! The god was barely deserving of the word "father."

(Percy would care . . . Percy's mom would care . . . Annabeth would care . . . Bianca . . .)

He pushed himself off the wall, his sluggish limbs struggling to keep him standing. He felt tired but not the kind of fatigue where he could go to sleep and wake up rejuvenated. It was the bone-tired feeling—weary from the deep fibers of his bones and blood. He wondered if it would ever go away. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

He blinked twice, rubbing his eyes. He needed caffeine or sugar or something just so he could stay awake. A weight was pressing down on him. Was it lethargy or was the air just that heavy in England? He took a deep breath and tried to ignore it. But it almost strained him to hold his head up.

If he squinted a little and added in a sparkle of morbid imagination, he could see a black cloud hovering over him, appearing as if it were ready to implode.

He shook his head again, ridding himself of the gloomy visage. If he thought about death and depression all the time, he certainly would go insane (if he wasn't already).

He directed his thoughts elsewhere . . . only to end up thinking about yesterday. The wizards. Harry. The promise—

He winced. Another one. He'd broken another promise. _Why_ couldn't he _keep_ them?

Technically it wasn't completely broken! He could go back and . . . and what? They'd kicked him out. He'd beat up his alleged charge. He took a deep breath.

_Another broken promise, another costly mistake . . ._

He exhaled sharply. He—he could fix this! He knew he couldn't go back to those wizards, but what if he did something else for them without being anywhere near them?

They were all fighting a common enemy, some blasphemous Dark Lord. That was the whole point of their war wasn't it? So he could just find this Dark Lord, assassinate him, and he'd technically fulfill his promise of protection . . .

He paused. _The broken soul pieces . . . If they belong to him he'll be impossible to permanently kill. I'd have to destroy all of them first. _

But he'd have to locate them. And for him to locate any and all the fool had created, he'd have to use his remaining soul as a channel. _Which means I need to find him._

He took one last deep breath before shadow travelling out of the alley.

_I can fix this._


	6. The Battle

He was not a man.

One might call him sub-human, a slave to power. Nico saw, with absolute disgust, all the mortal had done in his quest for eternal power.

He was a skeletal being, bones jutting out at odd places and features razor sharp. The wizard had hollow cheeks and skin as pale as snow, though not quite as beautiful. An ashy gray mixed in with his pallor, which was so white that Nico wondered if the mortal had any blood running through his veins. He was tall (Nico could discern that even as he sat in his glossy, gilded throne) and he held himself with self-assured arrogance, as if he thought himself infallible and superior to all others.

The most noticeable (and perhaps the vilest) feature about him was his face. He had no nose, merely slits through which to breathe, like a snake. He had no lips either, just an opening through which he could speak. But what made Nico cringe in disgust was the mortal's eyes.

They were as crimson as blood and just as startling. They were slit down the middle, like a cat's, and they seemed to glow with inhuman malevolence, a force that sprung from his eyes and invaded all others, drawing from them their fear and their fascination.

_Except Nico._

He was no mere mortal. And he would not allow this blasphemous idiot to strike unearned fear in him. He was a criminal and not even a human criminal. He had destroyed his humanity the moment he had destroyed his soul, and in doing so, committed himself to an afterlife full of hell and oppression. No man, after all, be they wizard or demigod, was immortal.

Only the gods were eternal and only the gods governed him.

As he watched the narcissist satiate his psychopathic tendencies, he wondered if he should begin the final phase of his mission. He had been at this putrid place for three days, watching this mortal and contemplating his defeat. It had been shamefully easy to infiltrate this place. He was sure the mortal had "wards" but they were not "wards" that would keep out his kind.

He bypassed them easily, just as he had done at the apartment building. The only difficult part of the mission was hiding himself, but even that proved too easy. These wizards didn't have any spatial awareness, or even any kind of awareness. They did not see past appearances and they didn't try to either. They were poor soldiers (but excellent cannon fodder).

Even their leader had no observation skills and, Nico reckoned, no physical fighting skills. They relied solely on their magic to win them their wars, which, he supposed, would be all they needed in a war against themselves and other magical creatures.

But it was a blaring weakness to all outsiders.

He stuck to the shadows, using them as a way to maneuver around, invisible to mortal eyes, silent to mortal ears. But they were neither invisible nor silent to him; he discovered information that they no doubt would want to keep within this fortress.

Perhaps it would end up in the Order's hands, perhaps not.

Nico knew they had a spy of their own. He'd seen Severus Snape going back and forth from this compound; he was perhaps the only wizard Nico would be slightly weary of. He had a little knowledge of stealth and subterfuge. The other players in this war merely packed power and politics. If each side deigned to strategize, perhaps there would have been a winner already.

But they seemed to be waiting, the Dark Lord especially . . .

_Wait_.

Why would he be waiting? Nico narrowed his eyes. Kronos waited . . . but he did so purposely to amass an army.

Nico looked back at the oblivious Dark Lord.

_Is _he_ in hiding? _

Nico's eyes widened, pondering of all the possibilities. He remembered some of the wizards back at the apartment discussing their society's complete inability to believe in someone's existence. It must be this Dark Lord. And he was certainly making no efforts to dispose of this public sanction, as a fool would do. Nico's gaze sharpened on the unknowing mortal.

_Perhaps he's smarter than I give him credit for. These are truly optimum circumstances for him. Which means the Order is at a severe disadvantage. This war is getting slightly more interesting. _

It felt good to be a mere observer.

_Now . . . _

He turned his attention back towards the Dark Lord lavishing on his throne.

_Three days are more than enough time to do what I need to do. _

He'd mapped out the entire compound and gotten a feel for their operating style (raids and recruitment). All he needed to do was complete it. Then he'd leave and destroy the man's scattered bits of soul and hopefully a portal would open back up and he'd go home.

He knew he could not simply drop down and lop his head off; the mortal's soul was still scattered somewhere around the world, anchoring him to this realm. No, he had to destroy those anchors first. He now had a feel for the mortal's soul and knew he could locate the others instantly.

He did not need to remain and yet . . .

Nico frowned. _This is not my war. _

He took a deep breath and reached out towards the mortal's tainted soul. He grit his teeth as he channeled it, pouring it into a map constructed from shadows. It was a map of the world but it was quickly shifting. It first narrowed in on Europe and then on the United Kingdom where dots began appearing, five of them. Nico narrowed his eyes as soon as the inky blotches settled permanently on the map, looking wretched and desolate.

_He split his soul six times. _

_Six. _

_Times. _

This mortal would never escape the Fields of Punishment if he didn't land in Tartarus, at least. He severed his connection and breathed a silent sigh of relief as the evil drained from his mind and weight disappeared from his shoulders. His soul was truly filthy.

With a thought, the map disappeared into his pocket dimension, where he'd withdraw it later when he went hunting. But something nagged at him and he pulled it back out.

One dot looked particularly close to him . . .

He zoomed in on it and found that there was indeed one coming towards him at an extremely rapid pace. It was approaching the compound from the east, meaning it was either a living thing or it was being delivered. Nico cringed at the thought of another human carrying the mortal's filthy soul. He quickly put the map away and waited for the anchor to approach. He began to feel the parasitical effects, that ugly, disgusting taint.

The gilded doors burst open and in came a lone figure; draped in black robes and a skeletal mask, he made quite the striking visage. He walked briskly towards the Dark Lord, who watched through narrowed eyes as his guest approached. As soon as he came within five feet of the man, the figure dropped to his knees and kissed the Dark Lord's bare feet.

Nico blanched; _disgusting_.

"My lord," the man spoke, raspy tones leaving his mouth like a broken instrument. The Dark Lord's crimson eyes gazed nonchalantly at the figure still prostrated on the ground.

"Rise, my servant."

The figure rose, face still obscured by the mask. Nico felt around for the broken shard of soul but . . . the man did not have it. He could feel it emanating in the stronghold but, frustratingly, he could not _see_ it.

"What _news_ do you have for me?" the Dark Lord hissed, deriving pleasure from the shivers it evoked from his servant.

"The ministry continues to launch their massive smear campaign against Potter and Dumbledore, my lord. The _minister," _he sneered_, "_still refuses to acknowledge your return. He's afraid that Dumbledore is trying to usurp his position."

A high, cold laugh escaped the mortal upon his throne; it chilled the room by a few degrees. No one made a move, not even Nico.

"Perfect," the Dark Lord purred with a vicious smile. "And what of Lucius? Is his operation successful so far?"

The figure didn't even hesitate. "Very much so, my lord. Fudge is considering his undersecretary for the job. If I may speak my mind?" he asked, looking towards his master. The man nodded slowly and deliberately.

"The woman is a complete imbecile," the man continued slowly. "She's completely loyal to Fudge. She would probably even kill herself if he asked her. We found out that it was she who ordered the dementor attack on Potter."

Nico's eyes widened. _An inside job . . . Holy shit. The Order would probably want to know. _

But he hesitated; Snape probably had already told them. But didn't they say they thought it was Voldemort . . .? He shook his head; they probably wouldn't take his news well anyway. Best just to complete his promise independently.

The Dark Lord expressed his pleasure over the news and the servant exited promptly, leaving the man to revel in his successes. Nico still felt the splintered soul approaching, ever closer; at this point, he knew it was anchored to another living being.

He cringed at the thought; his stomach twisted.

He didn't know if he could get it out without killing the container . . .

There were several ways he could think of but—he paused, stomach churning dangerously—what if it went wrong and he killed yet another _innocent_ person with hopes and dreams and a future . . .?

_The boy was probably no more than seven, a child among children, and yet that did not matter to Kronos. The boy was a witness; the boy was an _annoyance_. And so the boy had to die. _

_Kronos raised his arm . . ._

_He gave the order . . ._

_And—and Nico obliged . . ._

He took a deep breath and wiped away the image of blood, of—of _misery _and _death_.

But thankfully, Nico did not need to worry over methods. Because what entered the room next was neither an innocent nor a sentient being.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

Into the room slithered a hissing python, appearing as vicious as its master.

Nico's features released their previous rigidity. A snake—just a snake. He knew it shouldn't be any better than finding another soul shard in a living, breathing person but somehow it was. _Just a snake. _He didn't need to worry about methods.

He took a deep breath, envisioning another container for the man's wretched soul—_a living, breathing container. _He didn't even want to think how he would get that soul shard out of Harry . . . he hadn't _wanted_ to think about when he'd first discovered it but now . . . now it was thrust upon him.

The green snake slithered beside its master, tongue tasting the air; Nico hoped it wouldn't be able to sense him. He was up in the roof, held aloft by an invisible web of shadows—like the centerpiece of a trampoline, only his wasn't as elastic. Carefully eyeing the snake's movements, Nico began to consider his course of action.

He usually never considered anything other than sneaking along stealthily and completing the mission without a witness—but that was because secrecy was required to mask their world from mortal eyes. And it was because such a method was his signature—no other children of Hades existed.

Yes, others employed stealth, but they always left behind evidence.

He didn't; he could shadow travel.

And so, he had a very distinct signature upon quest completion. His enemies and his allies always knew it was him; it was the equivalent of bursting onto the scene, as visible as the sun and begging his enemies to take notice, really. And so there was little question about how he would carry out this mission. But something made him pause. This was not his war; this was not his world.

And so, they would not know he had done the deed if he disappeared silently into the night.

They would look for the perpetrator. And they would fail to find the real one, but—as he had seen numerous times in this society—they would probably find a scapegoat. The Dark Lord in particular would not rest until someone had been punished, until someone's life was extinguished, even if he continued to quietly search. Such was what he had seen in his stint in Kronos' army.

To maintain his aura of power, to maintain his ironclad reign of fear, he always had to publicly punish incompetence—even if it was not the right person.

Normally, Nico wouldn't care if the mortal picked off his own men. In fact, he would have expedited its occurrence. But . . .

A tall, dark figure entered his mind's eye with a stringent stare and greasy black hair.

_Severus Snape, the Order's spy . . ._

If Nico played the unidentified assassin, the Dark Lord would sweep through his ranks, re-evaluating everyone to root out traitors because _of course_ without inside help no assassin could enter the compound without being detected. And since no one knew the assassin was a demigod—_no wizard knew demigods existed_—then the Dark Lord would take his actions as proof that traitors lay hidden within his men.

And Snape might be found out and killed.

Nico couldn't chance that. He really did not want to reveal himself either . . . _But even if I reveal my face, the man will assume that I had inside help anyway . . . unless. _A plan began to form within Nico's mind.

_That might just work . . ._

* * *

Voldemort relaxed as Nagini slid towards him, tongue flicking.

The room was silent except for her approach. Any creak, any dialogue just outside the door—he would hear. And that was just the way he liked it. Normally, he would not spend the day within this room but he delegated today to receive his spies; he had an image to maintain.

The recruitment ceremony had taken priority over receiving his spies yesterday, at least, all of his spies. He had invited his senior Death Eaters to bring forth their sons and induct them into the organization that would bring about a new world order.

Each deemed mature enough by their fathers had received their masks and robes; they had vowed loyalty to him and his cause. They had graciously accepted his Mark.

As a result, he had set aside today to receive the last of his spies.

He would much rather like to start negotiations with the vampires and the werewolves. He had sent some men to gather the giants already; he needn't go himself. Their location was too far from his stronghold and the giants only had simple needs; they were swayed with simple wants. The offer of bloodshed and booty was usually enough to persuade them to his side.

The vampires and the werewolves, however, were much more of a struggle to persuade to his side. Up until the last wizarding war, they typically remained neutral . . . The offer of mere bloodshed and booty would not sway self-aware species. They were societies unto themselves; no, he always had to offer them much more in return . . . He frowned; it was typically more than he would like but their allegiance was invaluable.

He knew that old fool Dumbledore would attempt to garner their support but, without the backing of his blasted government, he could only offer empty promises. And, once he ruled over Wizarding England, he didn't necessarily _need _to keep his promises.

By then, rebellion would no longer be viable. His Dark Mark, after all, had a much more sinister purpose than his followers realized.

Only one more spy was to arrive today.

_Snape . . . _

At first, he had suspected the man to be a spy for Dumbledore; _years of his seeming demise might have altered loyalties. _But the man's information was too valuable to lose. Snape was, first and foremost, a Slytherin; he was a cunning, intelligent man who was truly only on his own side. Slytherins, of all, held the fiercest self-preservation instincts. Voldemort knew that as long as he held the advantage, Snape would favor him.

Spies on the losing side, after all, received the worst punishment once the war was over.

A hiss from Nagini interrupted his musings. He turned sharply towards her.

_"What issss it, Nagini?" _he hissed.

"_There isss sssomeone here, Masssster. In the corner above." _

Voldemort lashed out, sending a painful curse towards the top left corner.

Fury bubbled within him. _Who would dare . . . !_

Voldemort watched his spell hit the corner with a hawk's eye, waiting to hear the satisfying scream of agony, waiting to hear _justice. _

But none came.

The shadows around the corner _jumped_, absorbing the curse before they descended the wall, like a spreading rash, until they congealed in the middle of the room, forming a darkly furnished door. Voldemort's eyes widened as a figure stepped out.

_What magic is this . . .?_

The shadows receded and the room darkened. Voldemort slowly stood up and approached. Curiosity, despite his outrage, overcame him.

He stopped. The figure was shorter than him, clothed in all black—no robe, _muggle clothing_, Voldemort thought with disgust—but his face was not veiled. His eyes widened.

It was a mere _child!_

Dark onyx hair fell in clumps around his youthful, pallid face, framing distinct eyes—eyes blacker than darkness that carried either a hint of genius or madness . . .

"You missed," purred the intruder.

Voldemort snarled. "You _dare _to infiltrate my stronghold, _little boy?" _

Voldemort felt a sense of satisfaction as the youth's eyes narrowed.

Voldemort desperately wanted to rip answers out of him. _How _did he infiltrate the stronghold without setting off the wards? (Voldemort's jaw set; _there are traitors among my followers._) _What _was that magic the boy had wielded? (It was nothing like he had ever seen; _a truly magnificent display._)

The boy merely smirked at him. "It wasn't hard," the _insolent child _boasted. "You even let me in yourself."

Voldemort's temper flared. He itched to hex the brat into oblivion but this information was more important.

_No matter his power, he seems intent to rat out his help. _

"You _accuse_ me of being a fool?" he snarled.

"Maybe, maybe not. But your followers certainly are. I suppose the Nott family will be start to wonder where their _second newly recruited son_ has wandered off to."

It was then that Voldemort realized.

_The brat must have snuck in by Confounding Nott Sr . . . Very clever. That's how he surpassed the wards. _A sneer developed upon his face; he needed to update security measures. Hopefully then he could protect his cause against the damned _idiocy_ of his followers. Voldemort's eyes narrowed at the brat. He aimed to recruit youths with this mindset and skillset.

_But . . . _he did not tolerate disloyalty and disrespect.

And so, Voldemort fired off a curse and the battle began.

* * *

Meanwhile, Snape arrived to sounds of battle coming from behind two ornately decorated doors, the room where he was to give his report_._

He paused and looked around. No Death Eater patrolled the area; none but he heard the sounds of a potential conflict.

_Is the Dark Lord in the middle of an interrogation? _Snape's eyes narrowed.

No, he heard shouted spells and the signature sound of property destruction. Veritable lightning bolts crashed into the walls; _how_ could no one else within the fortress hear this?

Could . . . could it be?

Snape froze. _Is the He battling an intruder?_

Almost immediately, Snape rebuffed the theory.

_Impossible! _

The Order had not commissioned any infiltration mission (to his knowledge) and the Ministry did not believe in His return. But still . . . He knew what he heard.

_A third party? _

Snape took out his wand and flicked at the door, muttering an incantation. A space in the door, right at eye level, became transparent enough for him to see inside.

Snape's eyes widened. He almost dropped his wand.

_Impossible …! _

Nico di Angelo was His opponent.

And he seemed to be winning.

* * *

Nico smirked as he dodged the Dark Lord's spell.

Voldemort appeared frustrated and angry; all Nico had done was dodge his spells—flipping over them, jumping over them, all _mundane_ stunts that he knew infuriated the mortal. A supreme wizard beaten by "muggle" moves—the greatest irony of them all.

But suddenly the assault dwindled.

The Dark Lord's expression relaxed; there was a glint of anticipation in his vermilion eyes.

_What is . . . Shit!_

Nico heard it before he saw it. _A snake's hiss. _Eyes widening, he jumped out of the way as Nagini viciously thrust towards him, mouth open and fangs extended.

_How could he forget about the snake!_

But that was merely the distraction.

Spells came from every which way—above, below, right, _left! _No matter which direction Nico decided to go, he would be hit.

Shit, shit, shit—

_He'd underestimated him._

He was off balance.

He couldn't dodge again without landing into the snake's awaiting mouth.

Voldemort watched with sinister anticipation as the insolent child fell into his trap, as the curses headed towards him, _as he_ _waited for his glorious victory—_

But that moment never came.

Voldemort's calm expression morphed into one of surprise as the brat swung around midair, as a black sword materialized in his hand as if by the machinations of darkness itself, and as the boy parried his attack with the finesse of a master. The spells rebounded back towards him; he threw out his arms and from his movement sprung an invisible shield that dissipated the attacks.

He grunted from the impact, chest heaving—

"Too slow."

The boy threw him a mocking smile.

Screaming in rage, Voldemort unleashed a flurry of curses. A sinister rainbow spat from the tip of his bone-white wand and rained down upon his opponent. Stray curses slammed into the walls, shaking the very foundation of the room. Glass broke into millions of shards; the marble became a scratchboard.

And yet his enemy remained relatively unharmed. He proved more elusive than a rat, dodging his attacks as if they were mere annoyances rather than life-threatening curses. He itched to fire off the death curse but the boy's fate was to be his prisoner.

Nico panted lightly as he dodged one light after another, as he slowly entrapped the Dark Lord right where he wanted him. Two spells came at him—one from the left and the other from the right—he jumped up and flipped in midair to avoid them, only to spot a fireball heading his way as well. Red-hot heat seared through the air as the ball sailed towards him, brightening the room with baleful light.

Cursing, he quickly summoned a barrier of shadows, grunting from the strain; it felt like his muscles were liquefying as he rapidly summoned and compressed the shadows.

_Too fast too soon._

As soon as the barrier dispersed, however, his eyes widened. The Dark Lord emerged through the remnants of darkness with an evil smile.

The boy was, quite literally, backed into a corner, Voldemort no more than five feet away, wand extended. His posture screamed of satisfied victory. He let loose a triumphant smirk, determined to watch the boy's resolve _wither_.

"_Incarcerous."_

The boy could only stare, petrified, as ropes hurtled from his wand and wrapped tightly around the boy's body; not even a cricket could escape.

(Out in the corridor, Snape let out a shaky breath, once again breathing now that the battle had turned out a victor.)

"Insolent boy, you did not really think such cheap tricks would defeat the greatest Dark Lord of all time, did you?" Voldemort laughed—that high, chilling echo that belonged in a graveyard.

But at once, he perceived something was wrong.

The boy no longer looked fearful; he no longer slouched in terror.

His entire countenance and posture had changed.

Voldemort felt ill at ease and raised his wand but—

"Perhaps you should."

—ropes, once inescapable, dropped to the ground as the boy disappeared in a black, shadowy mist.

_Impossible! _

_He had installed Anti-Apparition wards!_

He whipped around, robes fluttering about him, with his wand extended and a curse on the tip of his tongue. The boy re-emerged on the opposite side of the room out from a blanket of darkness and it was then that Voldemort perceived something most extraordinary.

The entire opposite side of his chamber was _spotless_; everything else in his immediate vicinity was damaged, surrounded by broken shards of glass and property.

Not even had his mind formed the thought when the boy, smirking, snapped his fingers and somehow lifted the shards and pieces of the chamber and combined them into a very deadly cannonball the size of his throne.

Voldemort's eyes widened.

_Wandless magic—!_

"Compliments of the Order," the boy sneered before hurling the cannonball at his opponent.

Voldemort whipped into action; the ball was no more than a second from skewering him when he vanished the deadly attack . . .

. . . only to find an empty spot where the boy formerly stood and, beside it, the decapitated body of Nagini, lying as limp as a rag doll, as sanguine liquid dripped down onto the marble floor, surrounding the body with that which it had once most fiercely guarded . . .

Her head, a bleeding stump whose eyes immortalized her tragedy, rested upon the seat of his throne.

Voldemort didn't move an inch; crimson eyes could hardly believe the sight.

But then, the _shock _flooded in, followed by a tremor of _rage, _a thirst of _revenge _and—

He howled a bloodcurdling song of _anger _and unleashed upon the room a torrent of magic that sheared through everything in its path.

A blast flew at the large double doors and burned it until nothing but a mere skeleton remained; the doors transformed into dust, revealing the astonished visage of Severus Snape.

* * *

Nico re-entered the mortal realm in a forest—_he didn't know which; just that it was extremely far from his previous location—_and collapsed onto the ground, panting harshly. His stomach felt cramped and his muscles had morphed into liquid mush.

"F-Fuck, whe—where _is_ it?" He didn't know if he meant water or ambrosia. _Or both._

"What the Hades!" he growled. "Pythons aren't fucking poisonous!"

_Unless it's a damned _magical_ snake. _

His head felt weird—as if clouds were entering through his ears and fogging up his mind. His limbs became sluggish one by one and he could _feel _the poison searing up his arm, pushing further and further into his bloodstream, hoping to reach his heart.

He fumbled around in his back pocket, searching for the emergency bag he always kept on him, trying to ignore the vomit that screamed to spew out of his mouth. He groaned as his fingers still hadn't found it (and privately wondered if his fingers had gone numb). He went digging into his other pockets (other back, then front, other front) until at last he found it.

He tore the bag open and consumed the little square whole and not a second too late; the poison had been on the threshold of murder . . .

At once warmth flooded him and the pain receded, poison dissipating under ambrosia's healing flames. A nostalgic smile briefly graced his face as the taste of chocolate chips pleased his mouth; but his smile soon faded.

_That's history . . . _

Even though the pain had faded, Nico felt exhausted. He hadn't expected the damn snake to bite him as soon as he came near it but at least the idiot wizard didn't see . . . That definitely would have ruined the image he was crafting. He stared at the healed skin on his left arm—where the snake had bitten him. Dried blood surrounded the previously afflicted area.

He'd wash it off later.

He leaned back into the tree. He desperately wanted a nap. That battle had been extremely tiring.

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to go along with that strategy . . .

He was pretty sure that he'd fooled the wizard into thinking he'd infiltrated the place via the recruitment ceremony but that fight. . . He winced. It could have gone better. He could have just "explained" how he had gotten in and then encased the man in shadow shackles while he killed the snake but—

He sighed. It just wasn't _worthwhile _that way. That was cut-and-dry; boring! He needed some thrill to his dull existence, some way to vent, to enjoy his miserable life. He clenched his jaw. _It's escapism. Pure escapism. _And yet . . .

"_Weak! Too weak to save your sister, your friends, and certainly too weak to fight worth a damn in this war! Go home, little boy."_

He clenched his fists.

"_The strong keep on fighting through suffering while the weak fall. Keep fighting for me, okay, Nico?"_

He took a shaky breath. He didn't have to set a trap. He didn't have to dodge and let the damage accumulate. And he didn't have to pretend that the wizard had cornered him (he nearly got him a few times after all).

He studied his hand, opening and closing it in a sort of clinical curiosity. Hellfire. The snake—and the broken piece of soul—had died by hellfire. He closed his hand.

_That won't work with Harry though . . . _

He summoned the map. There were only five dots left.

Four dots until he fulfilled his promise.

Four dots until he exited this war.

And four dots until—_please_—he could go home.

* * *

"_Compliments of the Order." _

The mocking voice rang over and over again in his head.

"_Crucio_!" Lightning fizzed from his wand as a cloud of rage took residence in his crimson eyes.

A scream of _agony _followed. Severus Snape curled in on himself as lava poured into his veins, as a chainsaw wreaked havoc on his nerves, as blood poured from his ears.

_So—much—pain—! _

But finally . . . it ended and Snape opened his bloody eyes, the last drudges of pain sparking about his nerves. His hands twitched and his head felt as if a ton of bricks had laid waste to it. But he kept his eyes on the floor, in deference to his torturer. Harsh breathing became the music of the room.

"_Why_ have you not informed me about the Order's newest _addition_ sooner?" the Dark Lord hissed.

Panting, Snape replied, "I—" he gasped, "—meant to—tell you—today—my lord." The Dark Lord's eyes flashed.

_"_You_ will _tell me_ everything _you know about that boy_."_

* * *

"_Severus?_ What happened? You look dreadful!"

Albus paled at the sight of the Potions Master. His greasy hair was slick with blood and glued to his forehead as if he had bangs; the rest assembled itself into a rat's nest. His robes appeared darker in some areas, lighter than others but covered, almost universally, in ash and dust.

But most striking of all—_and most terrifying—_was the dried bloodstreaking down his cheeks, surrounding glassy eyes—eyes that bespoke of endless pain. The man entered slouched over and Albus noticed that he twitched from time to time.

Realization dawned upon him.

Eyes widened, he muttered, "Tom tortured you . . ."

All signs of the Cruciatus curse existed upon the Potions Master—the pain, the unkemptness, the twitching.

"Severus—you must be treated at once. I will alert Poppy—"

_"No."_

Albus stared at him, confused. He had never heard the man's voice like this, so _weak _and _feeble_, not even when the man had begged him for a new chance fifteen years ago. _The consequences of the Cruciatus Curse . . ._

"I need to report first—you will want to hear this."

Albus furrowed his brows. "Can it wait until after you have recovered?"

Snape shook his head, "The information is of utmost importance."

Albus frowned but motioned the man to sit down. "Very well."

The man gently let himself into the chair, wincing upon his descent, and appearing stiff even as he rested on the cushions.

"As you know, I went to give Him my report but before I entered I heard suspicious sounds—sounds that greatly resembled battle. I looked inside and it was a battle—between the Dark Lord and an intruder."

He paused. Albus appeared surprised.

_Someone has bypassed his impregnable fortress? Someone has _found_ it?_

"Albus," said Snape quietly, wearily. "His opponent was Nico di Angelo."

Albus' blood ran cold.

Shock overcame his face.

His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he pressed. Snape nodded, scowling.

Albus collapsed into the back of his chair, eyes furrowed in thought. What did this mean? He had thought the boy had exited this war upon escaping . . .

"What happened?" His mouth dried.

He feared what had become of the brave (if not reckless) young man.

Snape coughed before answering, his hands twitching almost uncontrollably.

"He escaped—but not after making a fool out of the Dark Lord."

Albus' eyes widened almost to the size of saucers. He was utterly _intrigued—_fascinated even—by this new development.

_How? He is not a wizard . . . but he is not a muggle either. _

From Severus' expression—the look of interest and awe—Albus knew it had been quite a sight to see.

"Severus, my dear boy, you need rest. We will continue discussing this later after you recover."

_And with a Pensieve._

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry Potter endured a restless sleep; tomorrow determined whether he returned to Hogwarts or rotted in hell.

* * *

**Authorial Notice:** Sorry it took me so long to update. I just had to get all of my affairs in order before I could devote my attention to anything else. But school is finally over for the summer and I can finish this story. Also, I know Voldemort split his soul seven times but Nico doesn't - the diary was already destroyed and therefore would not appear on the map. Thanks so much for putting up with me and I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter. PM or review if you have any concerns or simply want to comment on this newest addition.

Thanks,

Ilysia


	7. Long Lost Relative

"_Shit!"_ Nico cursed.

He'd failed to eradicate the soul shard in the gilded cup _yet again. _He had tried shoving darkness into the damned sentient object but the cup had just lapped it up, expelling baleful cackles instead of wailing screams. He'd tried crushing it beneath _tons_ and _tons_ of accumulated earth and he'd even tried freezing the cup before running it through with his sword but it _always returned in perfect condition._

He hurled the offending object at the wall. It landed with a sickening crack but carried naught a scratch upon its surface.

He collapsed against the wall, hands sliding over his face. His head pounded with a vengeance; his stomach screamed for sustenance.

Taking a shaky breath, he tore his face from his hands and glared at the blasted object.

_Why the fuck isn't anything working? Surely no form of mortal magic is stronger than the essence of the Underworld . . ._

And yet, his shadows failed, his ice left no mark, and his sword left no dent.

And the only thing that _did _work . . .

He shuddered. The only ability that completely and utterly destroyed these objects would not work on _living, breathing _people_._

_Hellfire._

Black, flickering flames manifested in his palm. The simple flame radiated a heat so incomprehensively hot that it was cold, colder than the deepest, darkest pits of Antarctica. It was the chill of the Underworld. It destroyed _everything_.

No mortal could withstand it. Hell, Nico wasn't entirely sure a _god _could withstand it.

He closed his eyes and willed his beating heart to slow. After this cup, only two remained. One he could destroy with little worry. The other . . .

Nico inhaled sharply. He flung the hellfire at the cup and reveled in the soul's screams of complete and utter _agony_.

_Justice._

So piercing were the screams that Nico had to shield his ears, or once again risk puncturing his eardrums. The shard didn't even attempt to manipulate him this time. The purification began immediately and without reprieve; unfettered, a _single spark _of the eternal flame could obliterate a building. _Nothing _escaped it. _Nothing!_

As soon as the soul perished, the glistening black flames blinked out of existence, taking the remains of the golden cup with it. Not even the tiniest piece of metal remained. The cup was truly and utterly wiped off the face of the earth.

_Blood spurting from glittering, agonized emeralds. Pleas for help that begged only for an end. Flesh melting, bones combusting—_

Nico flinched and threw himself onto the ground, desperately clawing at his eyes as if it would delete the image from his mind.

_No, no, no, no!_

That was _not _going to happen.

He'd find a way . . .

Harry will _live._

_(He couldn't kill another innocent person . . .!)_

A cold breeze blew into the abandoned shack, wrapping around his body like a blanket of ice. He shivered and slowly stood up, head pounding even more viciously than before.

It was quiet. _Too _quiet.

At times, silence was his ally but now its monotony reminded him of his tragic, wasted life.

He had never felt so alone. Yes, he had been in shacks in worse conditions than this—abandoned, silent, and lonely.

But then he had a _choice._

He didn't _have _to stay there. He didn't _have _to refuse company. He . . . He didn't _have _to close himself off from his world.

There remained a path upon which he could reenter the world of gods and monsters, of friendship and adventure. It existed like the light at the end of the tunnel; all it took to reach it was a couple of steps. But now . . . Now that light was locked behind bars, intensity diminishing every second, turning as black as the tunnel that housed it. No longer could he reach it with a few short movements. Now . . . _he couldn't even reach it at all._

He expelled a shaky breath, rubbing his frigid face. It was _ten years _before the war even began—almost _thirteen _to the day he'd been whisked away to someone else's world. He couldn't even go back to America and save his sister; he'd fucking _tried_ that, hadn't he? He had nothing left—nothing left to lose. He could die and no one would be the wiser; no one would care. He was a _traitor_, after all.

Nico traced the flight of dust particles as the wind blew them to and fro, each one like a feather in flight.

He had considered going back to camp once. He had considered showing up at Percy's house on his birthday. He'd even considered visiting Annabeth or Thalia once upon a weekend. But he could never do it.

How _could _he? They'd never truly been friends in the first place and his idiotic stunt during the Second Titan War pretty much cut off any and all ties. _Especially_ with Annabeth and Thalia. Hell, Percy was his only friend back then, truly. He was the only one Nico would associate with after he'd—forgiven—Percy for breaking his promise.

But then . . .

Nico swallowed. _Hard._

Then Kronos tricked him. Then he became a _shell _of a demigod. Even after he'd switched back to the side of his friends, Nico knew he'd never quite recovered. He'd screwed up _everything_.

(War _changes_ people.)

He could _still _remember Percy's expression when he saw Nico entering their base, entering after he had _clearly_ fought on—on—Kronos' side.

_Hardened sea-green eyes drilled holes into Nico, mouth curving into a snarl Nico knew Percy only reserved for his enemies. His blood ran cold; his mouth dried._

"_What do you want, traitor?"_

Nico flinched, slamming his head against the wall. A piercing crack darted atop the air and into Nico's ears. He turned around . . . and winced.

He'd damaged the wall.

Breathing out a sigh, he cupped his face in his hands, breathing out hot air to melt the ice claiming his skin.

_Riptide glinting maliciously as it aimed towards him, aimed right at his heart . . ._

Nico knew Percy never quite forgot; even after the war, he'd still catch that shadow roaming free within Percy's gaze, that tiny lining of tension.

It seemed Percy was always a soldier around him after the war—always alert, always searching for _something _that told him Nico's intentions were malicious. At that point, Nico knew he no longer had a friend. No longer had a friend who he could trust completely and wholeheartedly. And so . . . _Nico left_.

But—but he'd always been comforted by the _possibility_ that he could return, that there was ultimately always an option. Always a backup plan . . .

Nico fingered the broken plaster.

But now . . . that backup plan that didn't exist anymore.

* * *

Hours later found Nico studying his map. Only two more dots remained and—he furrowed his eyebrows as the map narrowed in on the location—and both were in the _same place. _

Nico froze as the location's name appeared.

_Hogwarts._

He knew at least one—_Harry_—would be there but . . . two?

He should be happy. He would be able to knock out two birds with one stone. _But . . ._

That school was where everyone was, the Order _and_ their children. _And _it was a school filled with drama, action, and scrutiny. It'd be that much harder to complete a mission undercover. Even if he were to sneak into the school with no one the wiser, _surely _there would be too much going on for him to complete the mission within a week much less a day. He'd have to focus on hiding himself, searching for that damn soul shard, and finding himself shelter and sustenance.

It was possible, yes, but it was troublesome.

The other option, though—to pose as a student or aid or, hell, even a _janitor_—was not any better. Frankly, it would have even _more _restrictions. He'd have an image to keep and tasks to participate in during the day. He may receive food and shelter that way but he'd only be able to work on destroying the soul shard at certain times.

It would be _maddening._

He supposed that, however, would work better in the end. After all, he might as well stay until he found out how to destroy the last soul shard. The school's library might even help him with that. It _could _be an asset. But it could also be a restraint.

He scowled. He really didn't want to face any Order members either, especially since they'd parted on unsavory terms, but if there was one way to show them that he was keeping his end of the deal . . .

He tossed the map back into his pocket dimension, scowling.

It looked like he was going to Hogwarts.

(Some annoying, smartass portion of his mind sang, "We're off to see the Wizard . . . !")

* * *

"May I ask what brings you here, Mr. di Angelo?"

The boy in question reclined in the chair across from his desk, legs crossed and propped up on the desk's surface. Albus sat down into his office chair, waiting. Waiting for an answer, a response. But the boy remained silent, submerged in his own world.

His office was oddly quiet, devoid of the whirring and puffing of his silver instruments, devoid of sunlight and even candlelight. Not even the Sorting Hat snored upon his bookcase (though he did hear Armando Dippet's loud, pulsing snore in the background). The room was as still and dreary as a graveyard, a feeling only magnified by the young man's presence. Fawkes eyed him wearily from his perch, appearing even older than his cycle would suggest.

Albus waved his wand and summoned several balls of light. The boy flinched slightly but otherwise made no movement. Fawkes jumped to his shoulder, fiery eyes still trained on the boy. A minute frown made its way onto Albus' wrinkly face.

That was definitely not a good sign. Fawkes, after all, had an aversion to dark magic or, perhaps in the young man's case, dark auras . . .

Still . . .

Albus never would have suspected that Nico di Angelo would come to Hogwarts.

It was certainly a surprise when he awoke to commotion in his office before dawn had even broken across the sky. And it was even more startling when he had seen the object of his musings for the last several months sitting so languidly in his chambers. He knew, somewhere in his subconscious, that the boy was capable of it. He'd seen from Severus' memory the boy's prowess in battle, seen how he had defeated the greatest Dark Lord of all time.

After emerging from the Pensieve, he had shivered. Such _power _contained within one boy—such _awe-inspiring magic_. Teleportation—_within warded areas!—_control over darkness—_shadows?—_consummate swordsmanship and physical ability, and his sound manipulation of the glass. All without a wand. All without spells. Simply _intent_ and _will_.

Not even the most powerful wizard could replicate Nico di Angelo's feats from that night. The kind of power he had displayed, in fact, had been . . . _godly._

(It was a very humbling experience.)

From the boy's own mouth, Albus knew he was not a wizard. And from Severus' memories, he knew the boy was not a squib. So the question remained—_what_ _was Nico di Angelo?_

A mystery, to be sure. A powerful, enigmatic mystery.

He was a wildcard in this war and one that Albus had hoped he could cast out of the equation altogether or play in his hand. Tonight, then, was an _opportunity_.

Five minutes had passed since Albus had asked his question and yet the boy offered no response. But Albus was patient. And so he waited.

Finally, after another five minutes, the boy looked into his gaze. His expression bore confliction but nevertheless, he spoke in a self-assured tone, "We made a deal. I've . . . I've come to fulfill it."

Albus blinked. That was unexpected . . .

_However . . ._

His eyes gleamed as a realm of possibilities opened itself up to him, the first good news in a legion of bad. It was the good kind of "unexpected," the kind that he could work into his plans and even use to _bolster _them.

To think he had unknowingly commissioned someone with indescribable power (for he had yet to find the source behind the boy's abilities) to protect the Dark Lord's most desired target . . .

"Of course," Albus responded with his kind, grandfatherly smile, that indulgent and all-knowing smile. To some it was comforting; to others it was arrogant and condescending. He hoped it was the former to the boy. He had no desire to convey any ill-will.

"I must confess," Albus continued, frowning slightly, "that it would have been easier if you had come at the beginning of the year."

Nico narrowed his eyes, "Why?"

Carefully cataloguing the boy's reaction, Albus replied, "The Ministry—our government—has sent in a spy to report on the school's daily activities and to change them as the Ministry sees fit. Your arrival will not pass unnoticed. I fear it will arouse even deeper suspicions within the Minister."

Nico didn't answer immediately; the gravity of the situation settled upon his shoulders.

"Oh," he muttered, scowling. "Wait—what _suspicions_?"

The twinkle in Albus' eyes died, "The Minister believes that I want to usurp his power and position." He knew, innately, that the boy would be able to sense any lie. He couldn't afford to alienate the young man, not when he possessed such _possibilities_.

The boy tensed. "Is there any truth to his suspicions?"

"No," Albus sighed forlornly. "Cornelius is simply afraid. Fear, unfortunately, is just as dangerous as any blade or curse. It has distorted his mind and robbed him of his mental faculties." He paused. "I believe that it was one of your American presidents that posited, 'There is nothing to fear but fear itself.'"

(Nico almost flinched; the man had no idea how close to home he'd hit. He forced himself to relax.)

Nico took a deep breath, moving his legs off the desk. "Okay . . . What if I were to pose as some teacher's assistant—like grading or . . . supervision?"

Albus frowned. "The Ministry would surely take notice if I were to give you any kind of authoritative position, especially given your youth. Perhaps if you had been older, your idea would have worked. Our best chance is to enroll you as a transfer student. Even that, however, is risky." _And_, Albus thought, _it entails much forgery and persuasion . . ._

Nico grimaced. "That wouldn't work either though. You forget—I'm not a wizard. _I can't do magic."_

Albus' eyes bore into the boy's dark ones. "Perhaps you are not a wizard, but certainly you can perform a kind of magic."

Nico froze.

His heart stopped, reply dying in his mouth.

_How . . . ? How does he know?_

He wracked his brains for any instance in which he had used his powers in front of the man. But he remembered _none._

Mouth dry, he opened and closed it, body tense and poised to bolt. Albus simply sat patiently, waiting for Nico's response.

"What—what do you mean?" Nico finally breathed.

Albus gave him a warm, _knowing_ smile. "You know what I meant, Mr. di Angelo."

Heart hammering, Nico refused to respond for a few seconds. What was the old man playing at? Did he really know or . . . or was he just baiting him, trying to get information out of him?

Nico's eyes narrowed. _That's not gonna happen. _Besides . . . he said "magic." If he really knew, then he would have said "powers" or something like that. _He doesn't know—he's bluffing! _

(He _still _couldn't remember any instance where he'd hinted at his powers and it was driving him _nuts_.)

_Fucking old men, _he cursed. All of them were like this. All expected him to fold. He hid a dark grin. _Well not this time, you old sod . . ._

He prepared his curveball, "You are more observant than I give you credit for, Mr. Dumbledore. I didn't expect you to deduce that I have a rather active . . . sex life."

It worked.

His bland, solemn delivery baffled the old man. Satisfied, Nico watched the bewilderment circulate on the man's otherwise calm and collected face. First, his eyebrows furrowed, then his mouth opened (and immediately closed), and finally the old man settled upon a half-bemused, half-amused expression, very much reminiscent of Curious George.

"Pardon me, but I must have heard wrong, Mr. di Angelo. Will you repeat that, please?"

Dark eyes locking into the old man's blues, Nico nodded and continued, "You heard me perfectly. Though I do want to know how you found out. Did you ask my sex partners about my . . . magic wand?"

When Dumbledore didn't reply, Nico scowled, "You did, then. I'm gonna kill Jeff . . ."

Cackling in his head, Nico burned the old man's bewildered expression into his memory.

Dumbledore coughed. "Ah yes . . . well, perhaps you are right. We should find another solution."

Nico breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as the old man changed the subject.

_I still need to figure out how the hell _he _found out._

His fists unclenched and dropped off of his armrests.

"You sure I can't just masquerade around as a teaching assistant? Or hell—even a janitor?" he deadpanned. Dumbledore shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. Your appearance would draw undue attention as would your accent. Unless," Dumbledore looked thoughtful, "you would allow me to weave a glamour over you?"

Nico tensed. "No. Definitely not."

Dumbledore frowned. "Mr. di Angelo—"

"_No_."

He wasn't going to let some wizard mess with his appearance! Who knows what else he might do? Did that man think he was stupid or something? He doesn't even really know him and certainly not enough to _trust_ him.

Hell, he didn't trust _anyone_.

"I see," muttered the old headmaster. He leaned back into his chair as silence lapsed over them.

"This is quite the conundrum, Mr. di Angelo. We have exhausted all plausible options—"

Dumbledore froze, eyes roving over Nico's black hair and pale features. "Perhaps not," he muttered, "Yes, yes, that might work . . ."

He peered at Nico. "If not a student or an aid, how about you pose as a relative of one of my professors?"

Nico's eyebrows raised to his hairline. "Are you serious?"

If he wasn't going to change Nico's appearance, how was that idea going to work? He didn't even sound like he was from here either. He had an American accent for Zeus' sake!

"How would that work?" he questioned, incredulous. "I don't even have the same accent as you guys."

"That's a simple fix," Dumbledore responded, beaming. "Accents can be faked."

Nico snorted. "Yeah for some people but I can't do a British accent."

The old man's eyes twinkled. "You never know until you try, dear boy."

Twitching, Nico retorted, "I have tried. It didn't work out so well."

The old headmaster's smile slipped. "Perhaps you are being too critical of your abilities."

Nico just stared at him, raising an eyebrow. Sighing, he shifted to a more comfortable position and, donning a British accent (or trying to), said, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Albus winced. The boy was right. His pronunciation was off by, dare he say it, miles. It sounded like a rooster had devoured both German, American and Irish pronunciations and had spoken them all at once.

And so . . . they were back to square one.

Curious, Nico spoke up, "Who would I have been related to?"

The old man smiled. "Professor Snape. I believe the coloring and . . . demeanor are right."

Nico almost choked as he visualized the walking, talking bat. He scowled.

Wait . . . "Do I have to be a relative from England?"

Dumbledore furrowed his brow, knitting together his hands. "Perhaps not . . . though that story would be harder to sell. Our community is closely knit and secluded mostly within the United Kingdom."

Nico silently cursed. This was getting ridiculous. "Well aren't America and England 'closely knit?' Have _no_ wizards moved to America?"

Albus smiled gently. "None I am aware of, no. The American magical community is not as developed as that in the United Kingdom. Here, witches and wizards have been granted self-government, which we exercise fully. While I do not know if American witches and wizards are granted the same—I would assume so given their style of government—they do not exercise it. Instead of a united government, in America witches and wizards divide into smaller, regional groups. Therefore, most European wizards typically stay local."

Nico listened with interest. He had a feeling why the magical community wasn't as developed . . . Greek _mythology_ had taken its place, hadn't it? _Ah, the Mist . . . _He'd never come across a wizard back in America, after all, and neither had any of his fellow demigods.

A thought dawned on him. What if these American "witches and wizards" weren't really witches and wizards?

_Could these "witches and wizards" in America be Hecate's children? It would explain why the old man thought them regional, autonomous groups . . ._

He grimaced. Either way, it meant he couldn't be Snape's relative from America.

Wait . . . what if—?

"What about Italy?" The old man tilted his head. "Italy does have a self-governing ministry, yes, though much less renowned than that of Britain or France. May I ask why?"

Nico smirked. _Bingo. _"We can say I'm his distant relative from Italy, then."

Dumbledore remained silent, goading him to explain.

"I know how to speak the language. And I could . . . probably fake the accent."

The old man stroked his beard, thinking. Nico began to shift impatiently as the silence stretched into minutes. He wasn't meant to sit still _this _long.

"Ah," the old man finally muttered, pleased. He smiled at Nico. "I do believe that we have your cover."

* * *

"Albus," Minerva called, walking up next to the man in question. "Why have you called a meeting so early? We have classes to prepare for!"

Though she was dressed in her emerald green robes, she did not appear as sharp as usual. Strands of hair fell from her hastily made bun, her blouse was ruffled beneath her robes, and she appeared older in the dim light, wrinkles and crow's feet more obtrusive than usual.

The rest of the staff, with the exception of Severus, fared no better.

Filius' hair stuck up like a duck's rear end and Pomona's robes were on backwards. Albus felt inclined to tell her but decided to spare her the embarrassment. Snape, however, billowed into the room with black, unwrinkled robes, his hair greased back and eyes sharp and grim. His perpetual scowl seemed even deeper in the wee hours of the morning.

"It's six o'clock, Albus! What could possibly be so important?" Pomona asked, exasperated.

Albus smiled at them and asked, "If you will wait only a few more minutes, I will tell you." He shared a meaningful look with Snape, which was missed by the bleary-eyed staff. They eyed him jealously, noticing his unflappability. Albus wondered how they would react if they knew Severus had been up for an hour already.

A few more minutes passed and the last few staff members stumbled in, including Dolores Umbridge. The Heads of Houses were pleased to note that she appeared as ruffled as they, if not more. She wore yet another ridiculously pink outfit, buttressed by hot pink robes and shoes—all of which bore wrinkles and creases.

She appeared even more like a short, monstrous toad in the morning without her makeup and alertness. Albus was beginning to understand that her rather excessive application of makeup was for their benefit rather than hers.

"Well," she demanded, voice clipped, "is there a reason that this meeting couldn't wait until a more reasonable hour?"

Albus smiled and rose from his (very comfortable) armchair. "I assure you, Madame Umbridge, that a matter of utmost urgency has arisen. I did not think it prudent to wait any longer and limit our time to cast a verdict. Severus, if you will?"

Scowling, Snape stood and took the headmaster's place in the center of the room. "I have just received word," he drawled, "that a distant family member has lost his guardians. Unfortunately, I am his only _suitable_ remaining family member. By law, I am required to take him until his situation gets . . . _resolved_." A distasteful grimace twisted his lips.

Minerva frowned. "What does this have to do with us, Severus? Surely you can resolve your own family issues without our help."

Snape sneered at her. "As you well know, Minerva, I _live_ at Hogwarts."

Realization dawned on the witch. "I see . . ."

"Yes . . . he will be coming here for the time being."

Umbridge's beady eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He?" she simpered.

Snape scowled at her. "Yes, he, as in a male human being. Do you require a more precise definition, Madame Umbridge?"

She frowned. "No, thank you, I don't. I had simply thought that you were the last of the Prince line."

Snape bristled, "I am."

Tension draped over like a curtain, its folds curling and twisting over its occupants. If they weren't awake before, they certainly were now . . .

"How," Umbridge's sickly sweet voice broke through, "can that be if you claim another relative?"

Snape's nose wrinkled as he looked at her. He stood up straighter and bore down on the woman's short stature. "_That_ is because the boy is the first cousin of Elias Windsworth, the man who married my mother's sister. The boy is not a member of the Prince line, Madame Umbridge. When his immediate family died, he was taken in by friends of the name of di Angelo—"

The Heads of Houses started at the familiar surname.

"—and returned with them to Italy. As I understand it, his guardians died two weeks ago and those Italian dunderheads have just now found him a . . . _home_," the man sneered the word.

The toad-like woman opened her mouth, tempted to say something, but then closed it just as quickly. "He will be Flooing in from Italy later this afternoon unless," Snape glowered at his listeners, "there are objections."

No one moved. Albus simply smiled.

Until of course—

"I had thought that only professors may live on school grounds. Is that not what the Hogwarts charter stipulates?" the Ministry employee continued, determined.

Albus' eye twinkled. "Perhaps I can answer that, Madame Umbridge. The Hogwarts charter does indeed allow for professors and other employees to live on school grounds. As determined by the Ministry a century ago, that clause extends to the families of such employees. You may look up the act; I believe it is called the 'Families of Hogwarts' Act, 1889."

Frustrated, the woman momentarily lapsed into silence, but Albus saw an invidious gleam growing in her eye.

"I trust that the paperwork has been filed for his citizenship then and everything is in order with the Ministry?"

Snape didn't even bat an eye. "He will not be under my care permanently, Madame Umbridge. I have declined to take on guardianship of the boy. He is simply staying here until the Italian Ministry finds him a permanent home. He has no need to become a British citizen but the Italian Ministry has procured him a temporary visa if you must know." Umbridge's smile slipped.

Albus stepped forward, "Are there any objections to the young man's arrival?"

Not even Umbridge voiced a complaint. The professors silently shook their heads. Albus clapped his hands in delight. "Good! Please join me later in welcoming the young man and helping him to get situated around noon then. Thank you for your cooperation this morning. You may leave."

The meeting adjourned, leaving the two conspirators to stare at an empty room while the adjourned left with creeping suspicions over the unexpected arrival, some informed, and one destined to find its way to Minister.

* * *

Nico felt absolutely ridiculous. He stood in front a mirror, scowling at himself, as he practiced his faux Italian accent. It was much better than his "British" accent (if it could even be called that) but it sounded slightly exaggerated. He'd been working on toning it down for the better part of an hour (and almost destroying the mirror when it told him, "A little thick, dearie.").

He thought he'd come pretty damn far. It was a lot less overt, but still noticeable to anyone who listened. But the mirror's constant babble embarrassed him more than he'd like to admit. There was no privacy in these wizard dwellings, was there? He muttered darkly to himself, as he sat back down into the chair across from the Headmaster's desk.

The portraits to his left of previous Headmasters (as the old man informed him) remained silent, eyeing him suspiciously. He glared right back at them, shivering just from the thought of _moving pictures. _It had nearly scared the shit out of him when he'd begun to hear voices but saw no bodies. (He thought he'd finally cracked.) But then, lo and behold, he had located the source. They were probably just angry that he'd poked them in the face.

. . . He was curious.

Finally, though, the door to the old man's office swung open, followed by the headmaster himself and his new . . . cousin. Snape glared at him as he entered; Nico simply scowled.

"I presume you have aptly prepared and memorized your . . . family history?" the bat drawled, looking pointedly at Nico.

Nico raised an eyebrow and, deciding to test out his "accent," replied, "Si, signore. Or should I say 'cousin'?"

Dumbledore smiled and clapped. "Admirable job, Mr. di Angelo. I never would have suspected your accent."

Nico nodded, silently thanking him.

"I have called in a favor to the Italian Minister. Quite a quagmire I rescued him from actually; his daughter was bitten by a rare magical snake and they had been unable to harvest the snake's venom for an antidote. Luckily, though, I had some with me and was able to administer it to his daughter in enough time." Albus smiled. "He has set everything up, including your 'visa.' Papers will be owled shortly."

Nico grunted. "Okay . . . what now?"

"Now," spoke Snape as he approached Nico, "we test your memory. Don't disappoint me."

Nico glared at him. "Shoot."

Snape swooped down on him, fists gripping his armrests as he shoved his face into Nico's personal face. Nico could see every blemish on the man's face, as well as his burning eyes and glare.

"What are the names of your deceased guardians?" he fired.

"Maria and Antonio di Angelo."

"How did they die?"

"Uncontrollable Fiendfyre."

"What are the names of your parents?"

"Mary Sutherland and Vance Windsworth."

"How did you receive your education?"

"I was homeschooled by my guardians. I have recently finished my studies and was about to become Antonio's assistant before they died."

"What were your guardians' occupations?"

"Maria didn't work but Antonio was an Auror."

Snape snarled. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Where did you live?"

"Rome, Italy."

"_Where _in Rome?" Snape's eyes gleamed in victory. He knew they had not discussed that.

But . . . the boy gave him a smirk, "Near the Colosseum. That's where the Ministry is, after all."

Snape sneered. "I wanted an address, _boy_."

Flames manifested in Nico's eyes. "Perhaps _you _would but no one else will. Landmarks and general directions will be enough for anyone else."

Snape straightened, standing up once more. His beady, dark eyes stared sourly at Nico. _He has done this before, _Snape thought. _Any rookie would have pointed out that he did not have an address. Though given his abilities, it is not surprising._

"Adequate," he growled. Nico's jaw clenched, eyes flashing. But he kept his mouth shut.

Dumbledore walked up to the two.

"I believe it is time that you Flooed in, Mr. di Angelo."

* * *

As the professors piled into the small, darkened room, Nico looked for familiar faces. He didn't have to look far. Minerva McGonagall, that Flitwick person, and that Sprout person were all huddled near the old man, eyeing him with a varying degree of surprise and . . . resignation?

It was their position—behind the old man—that Nico was grateful for, however. The rest of the staff members, who he either vaguely knew from the few Order meetings he visited or didn't know at all, could not see their faces. Snape stood to Dumbledore's right, looking as cheery as usual.

And people thought Nico was grumpy . . . at least his the edges of his lips peaked up a few inches every once in a while.

But the professor that caught his attention the most, however, (and not because she was beautiful) was a short, stout woman below five feet tall wearing repulsive pink robes and an odd black bow in her hair, as if she thought she were a gift to the world. She bore striking resemblance to a toad—the big, fleshy face that was more wide than tall and lazy, beady eyes that stared at him with just as much intensity as he stared at her. He knew without a doubt that this was the government spy.

"May I introduce Mr. Nico di Angelo?" Albus announced, arm curling around Nico's shoulder and pulling him forward. He stiffened at the unwanted contact but forced himself to relax. He was supposed to be an ordinary kid, albeit one who just lost his guardians but still an average kid nonetheless.

The professors nodded to him and began introducing themselves. He learned the government spy's name was Dolores Umbridge . . . and that she had the most grating voice he'd ever heard. She spoke with that girly, bubblegum tone that females half her age tried excruciatingly to grow out of. She may flash him a sugary smile but he could tell that she was less than pleased at his arrival.

"Nice to meet you," Nico replied coolly, nodding to the teachers.

Dumbledore beamed. Nico had to admit that the man was a very skilled actor. (It made him wonder how many times the man had dealt in deceit.) "Now that you've been introduced, Severus will show you to your chambers—down in dungeons, I believe, near his—and after, we will introduce you to the student body at dinner—"

"_Hem, hem," _the spy interrupted, smiling sweetly.

Nico wanted to punch her. Her voice was _really _beginning to get on his nerves.

"Headmaster, shouldn't Mr. di Angelo enroll as a student in this school for the time being? Surely his education must continue."

Albus' jolly demeanor decreased somewhat but he dutifully answered her, "Ah, Madame Umbridge, there is no need. Mr. di Angelo was home-schooled by his guardians and has already completed his education."

The woman frowned, "Homeschooling cannot possibly cover all of the subjects offered at Hogwarts. Perhaps if he were to enroll—"

"Excuse me," Nico interrupted smoothly, "but I have finished my schooling, exceeding my graduation requirements. I don't need any extra schooling." He was proud of his Italian accent; he even managed to make the professors who knew him previously look at him, baffled.

The woman didn't look appeased. "Education is important, Mr. di Angelo. Don't you want to attain better knowledge? I'm sure Hogwarts can offer better schooling than anything you've had previously," she giggled. "And if you don't become a student, what will you do during your time here?"

Nico bristled. _Infuriating woman. _He knew that comment was meant to rile him up. _I'm not taking the bait._

But before he could reply, Snape stepped in and stated, "He will be my assistant. Another set of eyes and hands will reduce the amount of addle-brained mistakes I must deal with daily."

Umbridge opened her mouth to speak again but the old man's voice punctured the speaking vacuum, "Now that everything is settled, I will show you to your rooms, Mr. di Angelo. How about a tour? . . ."

* * *

"I can't believe this—"

"—just blew me off! It's not like it's a big club—"

"This is stupid!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great Hall, or, perhaps more accurately, an inferno of anger and frustration. Even the candles lighting the Hall flickered in intensity, as if they too had a bone to pick with Educational Degree No. Twenty-Four.

Harry sat down next to Hermione at Gryffindor's table, the most vocal table of all. Down a couple of seats, Angelina was red-faced and furious as she glared up at the staff table, attempting to drill eye-sized holes into Umbridge's squat figure. The rest of the Quidditch team followed her lead. Even Fred and George were more sober and subdued than usual.

"Bloody banshee," Ron muttered, eyes trained on Umbridge's tittering figure. She looked around the student body with a poisonous smile, as if she were not the cause for the bubbling anger plaguing the room. Her neighboring professors were stone-faced and irritated.

"Ron!" Hermione chastised. "What would your mother say if she heard you say that? Calling her names won't solve anything."

"You sure?" Ron retorted. "I feel loads better." Harry nodded in agreement.

As the two began to bicker, Harry peered around the hall, glancing at those he'd met with at Hog's Head. They looked just as uneasy as he felt. Rather jumpy, too, especially Neville. He twitched every other minute, looking just about everywhere but the staff table.

Recalling what Hermione said about jinxing the member list, he half-expected to see someone with incurable ugly acne parading around the room but no such person appeared. He clenched his fists, trying to reign in the _anger _that threatened to explode out of him.

_How else _would Umbridge have known?

He realized that other people were in Hog's Head—especially that suspicious, veiled witch—but why would they care enough to inform Umbridge? No, no it had to be a spy among the members, or, or someone hiding in the back of the room. The timing of the new law was simply too much of a coincidence to be anything but calculated.

When he no longer heard Ron and Hermione yelling at each other, he looked up, only to find them both staring at him in concern.

"Does—does it hurt?" Hermione whispered, nodding to his hand. He shoved it out of view. "No," he replied, unclenching his fists, "just-just trying to figure out how Umbridge found out about . . . That." He noticed a couple of his peers attempting to eavesdrop. They averted their eyes as soon as he glared at them.

Hermione frowned. "Still? Well we know it wasn't any of the students that met with us . . . Maybe one of Umbridge's spies followed us . . ."

"I bet it was Malfoy, that tosser," Ron interjected, "He's been sucking up to ol' Toadface ever since she got here."

Harry nodded half-heartedly. "Maybe."

Hermione shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I made sure it was a secretive affair. There weren't even _any_ Slytherins on the list either."

"It's okay, Hermione, we all make mistakes. Some more than others," Ron joked, though it seemed a little forced. Hermione glowered at him. "I hope you mean yourself," she retorted. Harry let out a small smile but soon his attention once again wandered. He found himself clandestinely studying Malfoy, who looked as smug as ever. It wasn't any different from his usual arrogant mug and Harry had to admit—if he truly _was_ behind the new decree, he would have gloated about it to Harry.

The bastard just couldn't help it.

Moving from Slytherin table, his emerald stare moved onto the staff table. Only Dumbledore appeared unruffled, smiling at the proceedings with that twinkle in his eye, at least, at everyone but him. The man seemed determined to ignore him all year.

And well, if he was—fine! That was what everyone else in the world was doing at the moment anyway. What was one more person?

Scowling, his eyes wandered right a couple of seats down, trailing over irritated professors, and finally rounding on Umbridge. She caught his gaze and smiled at him, wielding poisonous daggers in her smile. Harry immediately looked away. To take a leaf out of Hermione's book, _horrible woman. _

Snape sat beside her and appeared repulsed by it. His permanent scowl was even deeper tonight, which Harry had not thought possible. The man didn't look in his direction or . . . in the students' direction, really.

He was subtly looking beside him to . . .

Harry's eyes widened and he _froze. _

His heart began to pump faster as the blood disappeared from his face. He became as pale as a ghost.

"Harry? Harry, what's wrong—?"

Hermione choked on her words as she followed his stare. She, too, froze as if hit by a _Petrificus Totalus._ Ron followed shortly.

"Is that—?"

Because instead of the usual shadowed seat beside the Potions' Master, there sat a person, a dark-haired boy around their age with piercing, black eyes.

Nico di Angelo.

_Nico di Angelo was at Hogwarts_.

The three friends couldn't even speak, so wrapped in surprise and jolted by the improbability of the moment. Harry didn't know how he missed his fellow students' whispers and gestures towards Nico.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know but he kinda looks like Snape, doesn't he?"

"He's kinda cute . . . you know in that bad-boy sense."

The last one was spoken by Lavender Brown and it was enough to shock Harry out of his reverie. He shared a startled look with Ron and Hermione, poised to whisper, when the Hall quieted. Harry whipped around and saw Dumbledore standing up, smiling at the Hall.

"Good evening, everyone," he started. "Before we dig into our delicious meal, I would like to introduce to you a new face." He gestured to Nico, who nodded nonchalantly to his onlookers. "This is Mr. Nico di Angelo, a distant relative of Professor Snape who has found a temporary home, like many of us, in Hogwarts. Please join me in welcoming him."

The claps that resounded were a lot less than they could have been, particularly since more students were surprised (and somewhat horrified) that _another _Snape had come to Hogwarts.

_One was enough_!

Lavender and Parvati looked especially startled.

"He has arrived from Italy," Dumbledore continued after the meager applause died down, "and has already finished his schooling. He will, however, be assisting Professor Snape in his lessons so do not be alarmed when you enter your Potions class tomorrow." He smiled at the whispers that erupted from his comments. "Now that's settled, everyone—tuck in!"

The food finally appeared on the table, accompanied by delicious aromas and blissful sighs. If one thing at Hogwarts never got old, it was the delectable food. Ron even forgot his temporary shock over Nico's appearance as he shoveled steak into his mouth. Harry and Hermione halfheartedly filled their plates. Harry had lost his appetite a long time ago.

As he ate, Harry watched Nico. There wasn't much to watch—other than the boy eating, at least—as he didn't talk to anyone, not even his "relative."

"_Italy_?" Hermione hissed. "_Snape's relative_? _What_ is going _on_?" Harry shrugged, put-out. Too many things had happened recently and he was _tired. _

At last, Nico's black gaze mixed with his emerald one. He smirked, eyes matching his expression before turning back to his food. Harry furrowed his eyebrows. It was all just so _confusing_ lately.

"Do you really think he is Snape's relative?" Harry whispered in reply. He could see the resemblance, he supposed. Hermione frowned. Looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping, she replied in a low voice, "No, of course not. Remember how . . . you know detained him? They thought he was an intruder! And then he became a Member and . . . that incident with you and now he's here. _Nothing makes sense_!"

"One thing's for sure, though," Ron interjected, voice muffled by his food, "Umbridge is gonna give 'im a bloody rough time."

Harry did notice that she was staring awfully hard at the boy, and not in an admiring way either.

"Woah," Ron exclaimed, food spewing from his mouth, "What's wrong with 'im?

* * *

It had been a rather boring affair up until now.

(Though, he had to admit, he did find it amusing that the majority of the student body turned on him once they learned whose relative he supposedly was. Quite a reputation Snape had, then. And, he supposed, it was also funny to see the gaping mouths of Harry, Ron, and Hermione once they caught sight of him.)

But then . . . _they _came_. _He stiffened and almost dropped his fork. As it was, his knife slipped, sending his steak flying across the staff table right smack dab into Umbridge's awaiting cheek.

(He barely even noticed her scream or the students' laughter, two of which, twins in fact, laughed the hardest.)

Nico's eyes widened as the feeling of _their _presence struck him. It was a cold feeling, but one as familiar as his own flesh and blood. The scent of death, _of the Underworld_, flew into his nose, preceding the arrival of milky-white entities; several of them, each flying through the air as if an agent of the wind itself. Each ghost bore no color; it was as if they had come straight out of a black-and-white film.

For many, as Nico saw, it was _much _earlier than that.

Some wore chain mail and carried swords. Almost all, in fact, wore clothing belonging to another era—the armor of the Middle Ages, the cravats and coats of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (at least, so he thought), and, of the women, petticoats of ages long past. Many were grim-faced, especially the ones that hung over Slytherin table, but others still shared in the merriment of the hour.

Nico noticed one in particular around Gryffindor table who spoke with an eternal smile mounted on his nearly decapitated head. He pursed his lips, fingers tightening on his armrests.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

All souls were supposed to be ferried into the Underworld—or at least to Charon's waiting room. No souls should be wandering so freely among the living. His father would not be happy to hear about this but—Nico paused.

Actually . . .

His father had complained of overcrowding in the Underworld. Perhaps this would not anger him as much; maybe he even allowed the ghosts to stay? But no . . . that wouldn't be the case. These ghosts died long ago and should have passed through or into the Underworld centuries before. The Underworld was not as crowded then.

He honestly did not know what his father's reaction would be to this. Surprise maybe. Anger that they have been on the mortal plane for much longer than they were supposed to perhaps.

But his judgment . . . Nico honestly did not know.

And he didn't really care either.

He wasn't his father's servant or representative. He was barely his son. Why the fuck should he act in Hades' interests? He wasn't one to give undue favors. He wouldn't do anything. He technically didn't have a father for about another thirteen years anyway. He was sure the No-One-Who-Knows-Nico-Can-See-Him-Rule applies to gods as well or else Future-Hades wouldn't have risked contact earlier.

Sourly, he stabbed at his food. The remaining piece of steak (that hadn't gone to the spy) divided into even tinier pieces until, at last, he forced himself to eat it.

His fellow . . . "coworkers" seemed determined to ignore him but he was just fine with that. He wasn't exactly seeking conversation with them either.

Sighing inaudibly, he turned his attention back to the ghosts, trying to decide what to do. He could eject them to the Underworld; it wouldn't take much effort, really. They were more like shades than actual bona fide ghosts anyway. But that would be too obvious; Dumbledore and, hell, the entire school would notice their disappearance . . . disappearances that suspiciously coincided with his arrival.

If he wanted to hide in plain sight, sending them anywhere was not an option. So he would leave them here. He frowned; it just didn't seem _right_, though. Sure, they didn't appear to be malicious ghosts like Midas but . . . they _should_ be in the Underworld.

It was _Law_.

The Gryffindor ghost he'd spotted earlier (the one with the nearly decapitated head) suddenly looked up at the staff table, as if sensing eyes upon him. It only took a second until his gaze collided with Nico's.

The ghost rapidly paled, transforming from a milky white to a chalky, almost completely invisible white. He gaped at the son of Hades, eyes as wide as saucers and radiating fear. Nico noticed, with satisfaction, that those nearest him began to shiver from the ghost's outpouring coldness. Nico smirked at him.

_Checkmate._

The ghost turned tail and ran out of the room, followed by the others (as soon as they caught sight and sense of him). Students and teachers alike were baffled; they muttered among themselves, theorizing over the ghosts' odd behavior. None of them, except for perhaps Dumbledore and Snape, however, connected the phenomenon with a certain new arrival.

Meanwhile, Nico was pleased to see that they feared him. He was certain that they did not know who he was—by name and heritage at least—but all ghosts sensed his power over them deep within their souls. They inherently knew he was the Ghost King. And . . . And, Nico thought with dawning realization, they didn't know what he could and could not do, to them and otherwise.

This . . . This could work in his favor.

Even if he didn't threaten them with expulsion to the Underworld, they'd inherently believe it their duty to obey him. Nico collapsed back in his chair, pondering all the possibilities.

_A ready-made army._

One he didn't have to wait to call up from the Underworld or otherwise.

_A spy network._

Spies that would obey him completely and who could travel anywhere within the school without suspicion.

A slow, curling smirk graced his lips.

Next to him, Severus Snape gathered irrefutable proof that Nico di Angelo did indeed have something to do with the odd behavior of the ghosts. And he intended to find out exactly what it was.

* * *

_Dear Cornelius,_

_As I am sure you are aware, a distant relative of Professor Severus Snape has just arrived from Italy. The man claimed that he did not know of any remaining family member which, considering the circumstances, is possible. Knowing what we know about Dumbledore's goals, though, I suspect this is not the case. The boy arrived at noon today. He has a slight Italian accent and claims to have finished his schooling but something is off about the boy and the timing of this incident. I assure you, however, that as your agent in this backwards school, that I will watch him for any suspicious actions._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Dolores_

* * *

**AN**: Hope you liked it. I was very iffy with this chapter. I know I said I'd update weeks ago but something unavoidable came up. Please let me know if you find any mistakes. As you can see, I took lots of liberties with this chapter.

Comments and requests are welcome,

Ilysia


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